Restaurant Reviews

Restaurant Reviews Sandwiches, bakeries, fine dining, and everything in between. Come read reviews for restaurants in Portland. http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/restaurant-reviews The People's Pig Wild Boar Sandwich <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":26938,"width":"658","height":"433","top":"0","left":"0","scale_width":"300"}" data-image-id="26938" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2013/4/image/26938/0513-peoples-pig-sandwich.jpg"> <img src="http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.portlandmonthlymag.com%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2013%2F4%2Fimage%2F26938%2F0513-peoples-pig-sandwich.jpg&cropify=658x433+0+0&resize=300x>" alt="People's Pig sandwich" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 300px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> </div> </div> </div> <p class="p1"><span class="boldcaps">EVEN in a city </span>stacked with artful sandwich shops, one food cart rules them all. Little about the scruffy appearance of this metal box suggests what waits inside: a collective intelligence of flavors calculated to make taste buds reel with happiness. The experience is layered in smoke, the drip of decadent juices, and the tricky art of extreme simplicity. The tools are two cast-iron skillets and a mountain of wood. The mode is five components max, and one man’s determination to make every bite count. In the corner, an ancient cash register sounds an exuberant ping. It says everything about the People’s Pig. </p> <p class="p3">This sandwich-focused magic is performed daily on a tawdry patch of asphalt in Portland’s food cart nerve center, at SW 10th Avenue and Washington Street. Owner Cliff Allen and his sidekick Ray Ballentine operate quietly and off the radar, serving cult followers and a steady flow of visiting cart hoppers ready to eat up whatever ideas they post. In a windowsill that doubles as kitchen counter, an arsenal of fresh lemons, finishing salts, and fennel pollen—fennel pollen!—stands ready to serve whatever meats Allen is obsessing over, mesquite-grilled steps away over an open fire and sliced to order. Each sandwich holds messy, mouth-challenging generosity, accessorized with vinegar-splashed greens and handmade condiments, and tucked neatly between Allen’s homemade sourdough buns—yours for $6–10.   </p> <div class="text-box-right"> <p><a title="The People's Pig Food Cart Listing" href="/food_carts/the-peoples-pig"><strong>The People’s Pig</strong></a><br />SW 10th Ave &<br /> Washington St<br />Open daily, 11 am to 3 pm</p> </div> <p class="p3">Among the new scores is the city’s best fried-egg sandwich, holding farm-fresh beauties brought to life over hot coals to pair with smoky bacon and a wealth of sharp cheese. If you’re lucky, the pork burger is in the house—supremely moist and delicate, with a deep flavor surge. Allen goes the distance, grinding pork shoulder and belly into a mixture poached like fine sausage, then boosting them with sweet-hot mustard, a carnival of pickled red onions, and just-grated cheese that melts slowly on impact. </p> <p class="p3">But Allen’s succulent, fire-edged slabs of wild boar, bound in the chunky, bittersweet sap of citrus marmalade, may be the find of the year. We went inside to decode the juicy secrets of the People’s Pig’s euphoric wild boar sandwich. </p> <p class="p3">   </p> <h3 class="bigbold">Anatomy of a Sandwich</h3> <div class="inline-image-right inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":26939,"width":"640","height":"778","top":"52","left":"0","scale_width":"300"}" data-image-id="26939" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-right"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2013/4/image/26939/0513-anatomy-of-a-sandwich.jpg"> <img src="http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.portlandmonthlymag.com%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2013%2F4%2Fimage%2F26939%2F0513-anatomy-of-a-sandwich.jpg&cropify=640x778+0+52&resize=300x>" alt="People's Pig sandwich" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 300px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> </div> </div> </div> <p class="p1"><strong>THE MEAT  </strong><br /> Wild boar tastes familiar yet different—think steak with a feral essence. Cliff Allen hunted down a Texas-born breed from Nicky USA, Portland’s go-to game supplier. He’d never cooked boar; he just knew he loved it. “It doesn’t need much,” he says. “It’s all about the smoke and fire. They do their thing.”  </p> <p class="p1"><strong>THE BREAD  </strong><br /> When Allen couldn’t find the proper rolls for his juicy constructions, he did what any obsessive would do: he made them himself. These sourdough delights deliver. Crusty intensity. Personality. A punch of tang. Wood-fired crunch. And just enough soak and sturdiness to rein in dripping juices. That’s sandwich bread. </p> <p class="p1"><strong>THE CONDIMENTS  </strong> <br /> You won’t find ketchup here. Instead, each sandwich gets its own rocket boost of flavor. With the wild boar sandwich, that means blood oranges—rinds, pulp, and all—slow-cooked into honey-thick swirls of citrus, sweet, and bitter oozing from a pile of earthy meat. </p> <p class="p1"><strong>THE GREENS  </strong> <br /> Even a meaty sandwich like this yells, “Eat your vegetables!” Allen makes it easy, piling a bright bushel of long-stemmed, peppery watercress right on top of the boar.    </p> Wed, 01 May 2013 09:32:00 -0700 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/the-peoples-pig-wild-boar-sandwich-may-2013 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/the-peoples-pig-wild-boar-sandwich-may-2013 Italy, Rocking <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":25495,"width":1000,"height":667,"top":"0","left":"0","scale_width":"300"}" data-image-id="25495" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2013/3/image/25495/0413-duane-sorenson-ava-gene.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2013%2F3%2Fimage%2F25495%2F0413-duane-sorenson-ava-gene.jpg&cropify=1000x667%2B0%2B0&resize=300x%3E" alt="Duane Sorenson" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 300px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> Ava Gene's owner Duane Sorenson</div> </div> </div> <p class="p1"><strong class="boldcaps">H</strong><span class="boldcaps">istorically</span>, grand ambition has fizzled in this town like a North Korean rocket. Reclaimed wood and concrete floors have become the uniform. We now house enough wood-fired flames to burn down the entire Northwest. We need a new idea—a bar-setter, a coherent package of passion and professionalism on a big plate, with details bolted down, from design to service, but crafted for Portland: unpretentious to the core. On SE Division Street, Ava Gene’s is making this bold run right in the heart of the People’s Republic of Portland. </p> <p class="p3">A rush of indie glamour greets you at the door. Old light tubes swarm across the dining room like crazed fireflies, casting a cinematic twinkle over low-slung, back-to-back banquettes, hand-stitched in butter-soft, brick-red leather. At the chef’s counter, tall stools, their custom pads snug as saddles, peek into a kitchen of techy ovens, leaping flames, pasta vats, and baseball-capped cooks pounding raw Tuscan kale into submission and frying Sicilian cannoli shells to order. </p> <div class="text-box-right"> <p class="p1"><strong><a title="Ava Gene Listing" href="/restaurants/ava-genes">AVA GENE’S</a> <br /></strong><em>3377 SE Division St <br />971-229-0571 </em></p> </div> <p class="p3">Ava Gene’s is personal. You won’t find Frank Sinatra swinging on the sound system. A handpicked playlist of iconic rock—the Byrds, the Band, the Dead, rare and uncut—fills a custom-crafted room of Old World beauty, Italian grandma curtains, elegant architectural salvage, and, lining the walls, bottles of killer Barolo. Gilded Italian paintings, dark and baroque, make friends with spunky local folk-art portraits—bright-haired, pigtailed gals who look eerily like the bartenders. Marble is everywhere, including a vaulted bathroom bathed in ambient light and spilling Dr. Bronner’s liquid hippie soap into an antique sink. </p> <div class="inline-image-right inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":25494,"width":"1000","height":"828","top":"0","left":"0","scale_width":"380"}" data-image-id="25494" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-right"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2013/3/image/25494/0413-ava-gene-restaurant-001.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2013%2F3%2Fimage%2F25494%2F0413-ava-gene-restaurant-001.jpg&cropify=1000x828%2B0%2B0&resize=380x%3E" alt="Ava Gene’s dining room" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 380px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> Clockwise from left: Heirloom borlotti beans over warm toast; Ava Gene’s dining room; fried polenta and mashed salt-cod dip.</div> </div> </div> <p class="p3">Cruising the terrazzo floor is tattoo-blazing, high-fiving, flannel-clad Duane Sorenson, Ava Gene’s owner and Stumptown Coffee Roasters’ global kingpin. He is the Dude, the essence of awesomeness—and increasingly, the culinary king of SE Division Street, where he lives, works, and invests his mega good fortune on whatever “blows his mind.” At 41, he is a man of broad and particular tastes, many on display at Ava Gene’s, named after his 10-year-daughter. This is his love letter to Italian food, and the expression of his desire to “create one of the best restaurants on the West Coast” for his neighbors in the hood that birthed the first Stumptown 13 years ago. When your $6 bread plate arrives with $40 olive oil for dunking, it’s hard to not believe him. </p> <p class="p3">Sorenson calls himself a born risk taker, with a compulsion to create. In 2008, the guy high school friends called “Duane the train” U-hauled across the country to rewire Gotham with Stumptown’s credo: “the most bitchingest coffees in the world,” farmer-respect, barista heroes, and roast-it-yourself cool. Even New York, now home to two Stumptown locations, didn’t argue. Today, as his coffee business percolates with investors, Sorenson’s focus is back at home, where he’s brewing his own vision of Portland food culture.  </p> <p class="p3">Sorenson has the taste, passion, and resources to change the conversation, as he did with coffee. His first try, the Woodsman Tavern, rebundled Oregon DNA into a Jake’s Famous Crawfish for Now People, mixing <em>Twin Peaks</em> and James Beard, masculine booths and seafood on ice with hipster cred and cocktail-obsessive culture. While the Woodsman is a great space and essential cocktail destination, the kitchen lacks the vision and precision of Sorenson’s micromarket next door—the general store curated as art exhibit. Ava Gene’s reaches higher. The room itself already contends for the best in town. But does the food measure up? </p> <div class="inline-image-block inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"scaling-type":"in-proportion","fill-color":"#000000","height":579,"left":"0","top":"0","width":1000,"scale":"100"}" data-image-id="25492" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-block"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2013/3/image/25492/0413-ava-gene-restaurant-002.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2013%2F3%2Fimage%2F25492%2F0413-ava-gene-restaurant-002.jpg&cropify=1000x579%2B0%2B0&resize=640x%3E" alt="Ava Gene chef Joshua McFadden" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 640px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> Chef Joshua McFadden is intense about everything, especially vegetables.</div> </div> </div> <p class="p3">Any doubts are erased two bites into thick, wood-charred bread holding little more than giant chops of soft-boiled egg, cracked pepper, and an unexpected crown of sliced bottarga—wildly salty cured fish roe somewhere on the flavor continuum between caviar and tuna bacon. Joyful simplicity, great ingredients, confident surprise, the acuity of intention. This is Ava Gene’s stand. </p> <div class="sidebar-right"> <p class="sidebar-title"><strong> EAT THIS NOW</strong></p> <ul> <li>"Pane" with eggs and bottarga, heirloom beans, or ‘Nduja</li> <li>Carrots and pistachio nut butter</li> <li>Broccoli fritto</li> <li><em>Sagna riccia</em> pasta with lamb ragù</li> <li>Peanut gelato</li> </ul> </div> <p class="p3">The menu is not Portland’s safe, letter-perfect, clothesline Italy. It’s Duane’s world, nostalgic and edgy and channeled through the focused, cunning imagination of 37-year-old chef Joshua McFadden. You’ll find Roman tripe stew as it should be, hellacious and treacherously addictive, and primal, nonna-worthy orecchiette shells bear-hugging broccoli leaves and spicy pork crumbles. But you’ll also encounter the bastard offspring of Italy and Thailand: crisp heads of blackened brussels sprouts, each bite baptized in fiery fish sauce. </p> <p>The beauty here is found in a menu of eight little subdivisions, each housing a kitchen obsession. For satisfaction: go with friends, plan to laugh, order wide and deep. Kick off with a couple of “pane” for the table, open-faced snacks built on big-crusted filone bread. Don’t miss earth-punched borlotti beans spilling over toasty edges, or the ‘Nduja (en-doo-ya), a decadent salami paste that spreads like butter and tastes like a pork-induced wildfire.</p> <p class="p3">McFadden earned his stripes in the progressive trenches that speak to Sorenson: Batali, Chang, and Brooklyn, where the critically loved Franny’s earned two <em>New York Times</em> stars under his watch. But what sets him apart is a farm-fresh evangelism gleaned during his time at a pioneering organic farm in Maine. Vegetables are his stars, shining in a wealth of brainy but accessible combinations all blending less-is-more Italian rigor with intense flavors and forward textures. An evening here demands a collection of them. I’d return just for the barely cooked, electric-red carrots with fresh-ground pistachio nut butter beneath rich, pungent stripes of Sardinian pecorino. </p> <div class="inline-image-right inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":25493,"width":"1000","height":"673","top":"0","left":"0","scale_width":"400"}" data-image-id="25493" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-right"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2013/3/image/25493/0413-ava-gene-restaurant-003.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2013%2F3%2Fimage%2F25493%2F0413-ava-gene-restaurant-003.jpg&cropify=1000x673%2B0%2B0&resize=400x%3E" alt="Ava Gene Restaurant" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 400px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> Clockwise from left: Exuberantly chewy sagna riccia noodles glazed with lamb ragù; broccoli fritto in a blizzard of sharp cheese; orecchiette with sausage and rainbow chard.</div> </div> </div> <p class="p3">Camps are already forming around McFadden’s embrace of the art of al dente—a toothy, sauce-absorbing chew essential to Italian cooks but a shock to softer noodle slurpers who insist the pasta is undercooked. Count me among those who say Ava Gene’s is getting it right. <em>Sagna riccia</em> with lamb ragù is the pasta dish we’ve been waiting for, its meaty shreds, tomato essences, and bitter chicory notes clinging to the wavy noodles like qi to the acupuncture needle. It helps to have superior noodles—imported hand-cut Abruzzo pasta rarely seen in this country and just full of wheaty nuance and rustic definition. </p> <p class="p3">The kitchen shows inconsistencies typical of a just-opened eatery. Bland scallops plead for something, anything; blood oranges are annihilated by enough horseradish to supply all of Israel at Passover. And sometimes that pasta really <em>is</em> just a hair underdone, even for al dente maniacs. </p> <p class="p3">But the number of wins already impresses. Service is sharp and informed, a rarity in anything-goes Portland. Desserts are simple but lovely, from ethereal panna cotta to pitch-perfect cannolo. Gelato pops with jumbo, water-blanched peanuts from North Carolina’s United Methodist Church—just the kind of find Sorenson lives for.</p> <p class="p3">From the bar comes both a Campari cocktail to write Rome about and a rare enthusiasm for little-known grappas and amaros to conclude a night of hard eating. Post-dinner espresso—surprisingly, often an afterthought in this coffee-mad city—is pulled by a trained hand. Meanwhile, the wine list is Italian-food-lovers to the core: nothing clever or cool, just an awesome library of great finds from great vintages, the best hunted down in fine cellars, but with a good number of terrific choices in the $30 range. You can soak in a $450 2001 Giacomo Conterno Barolo, or a $36 Fiorenzo Nada nebbiolo for a lively taste of the Piedmont. At either end, a score.</p> <div class="inline-slideshow-left inline-slideshow mceNonEditable" data-include-caption="true" data-slideshow-id="1024"> <div align="center"> <div class="slideshow-image-div"><a class="slideshow-image-link" href="/slideshows/slide-show-a-night-at-ava-genes-march-2013"> <span class="slideshow-image-wrapper" style="width: 230px;"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2013%2F3%2Fimage%2F25218%2F_MG_0278.jpg&resize=230x" alt="" /> </span> </a></div> <div class="inline-slideshow-caption" style="width: 230px;"><strong>Slide Show: A Night at Ava Gene's</strong> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> </div> </div> </div> <p class="p3">Ava Gene’s looks like a million bucks—and it probably cost a good deal more. Neighborhoods rarely get this kind of personal investment. From the luxe Ann Sacks tile covering walls inside <em>and</em> outside to the sidewalk marble benches that greet you, Sorenson took no shortcuts. And yet prices are modest, with most pasta options under $18. It’s not the end of his ode to Division. Come spring, his Roman Candle bakery and eatery will rise next door, with “flour everywhere,” long Roman pizza bianca flat breads, and a coffee bar fueling meals day and night. Up the street, behind the Woodsman Market, a smokehouse is coming to spin out handcrafted sausages and aged meats for all of Sorenson’s restaurants. </p> <p class="p3">Still, Sorenson downplays his ambitions, noting, “I don’t do anything seriously.” He insists he’s not looking to be the Big Dog of Portland’s food scene—he just wants to give back to the city he loves, to share the things he’s discovered on his travels with his neighbors. But don’t underestimate him. A night at Ava Gene’s leaves no doubt that Sorenson plays for keeps. After all, tattooed across his belly: a battleship.  </p> Fri, 15 Mar 2013 22:00:00 -0700 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/italy-rocking-ava-genes-march-2013 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/italy-rocking-ava-genes-march-2013 Go Small or Go Home <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":23311,"width":"531","height":"741","top":"59","left":"0","scale_width":"300"}" data-image-id="23311" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2013/1/image/23311/0213-slowburger.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2013%2F1%2Fimage%2F23311%2F0213-slowburger.jpg&cropify=531x741%2B0%2B59&resize=300x%3E" alt="Slowburger" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 300px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/dina-avila">Dina Avila</a></div> </div> </div> </div> <p class="p1"><strong class="boldcaps">L</strong><span class="boldcaps">ong before Paley</span>, Pomeroy, Ricker, and Rucker, Caprial Pence cooked up Portland’s idea of a “celebrity chef.” Founded in 1992, the Westmoreland eatery Caprial’s Bistro twisted French home cooking, Northwest devotion, Asian flavors, and help-yourself wine bottles into a new definition of neighborhood destination, elevating Pence and husband John to cookbook deals and their own PBS cooking program. The duo even lured West Hills diners over the bridge. </p> <p class="p3">Restaurant-free for three years and out of the limelight for longer than that, Pence is back, but in an unlikely venue: a 600-square-foot Korean fried chicken “shack” in a quirky Northeast food hub dubbed the Ocean. Just be careful what you call it: “It’s not a food court! I hate when they call it that,” says Pence, her hands clenched like a proud chef throttling an invisible foodie blogger. “It’s <em>a lot </em>cooler than that.” </p> <p class="p3">A fast-food venture is a surprising turn for 1991’s James Beard Award–winning chef (a Northwest first, from her star turn in Seattle). But with Basa Basa, the Pences join three other veteran chefs in a new microrestaurant model that has little in common with Sbarro. At the Ocean, mall-food grazing gets a<strong> </strong>Stumptown makeover, with fresh ingredients and handmade love bursting from a quartet of cheerful dining rooms. In this moveable feast, diners devour mix-and-match meals of spicy wings, meatballs, burgers, beer-battered onion rings, and 21 taco spins, strategizing courses between swigs of microbrews.</p> <div class="inline-image-right inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":23312,"width":"800","height":"550","top":"166","left":"0","scale_width":"330"}" data-image-id="23312" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-right"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2013/1/image/23312/0213-the-ocean-microrestaurant.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2013%2F1%2Fimage%2F23312%2F0213-the-ocean-microrestaurant.jpg&cropify=800x550%2B0%2B166&resize=330x%3E" alt="The Ocean micro-restaurants" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 330px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/dina-avila">Dina Avila</a></div> The Ocean’s façade on NE 24th Avenue and Glisan Street</div> </div> </div> <p class="p3">Developer Kevin Cavenaugh rehabbed an old Timberline Dodge auto shop on NE Sandy Boulevard last summer to provide food cart–style start-ups with indoor amenities. But he also pitched his low-cost, low-risk brainstorm to experienced restaurateurs excited to play around with comfort food without dropping their nest eggs on big kitchens and waitstaffs. It’s not perfect: a micromenu, it turns out, doesn’t guarantee consistency or quick service. But with big flavors rarely topping $10 a plate, the Ocean boasts more no-nonsense deliciousness per square foot than any other brick-and-mortar in town. </p> <p class="p3">Microrestaurants are increasingly viable options for Portland food pros. Micah Camden flipped the idea into a mini-empire of petite Little Big Burger annexes. Last fall, ChefStable honcho Kurt Huffman and chef Trent Pierce parlayed the formula into one of the hottest tables in Portland: the high-end seafood destination Roe, hidden in the back room of their modern ramen spot, Wafu. Huffman says that “piggybacking” on Wafu’s existing infrastructure dramatically cut start-up costs, from $150,000 to $15,000. </p> <p class="p3">The Ocean goes a step further, clustering the micros together in a pod, creating an energetic community of restaurants with shoestring budgets. Uno Mas owner Oswaldo Bibiano, Portland’s most celebrated Mexican chef, pays around $1,400 a month for his 505-square-foot space, a typical Ocean rate. The rest appears to be gravy. “I can make rent on one good Saturday night,” he says.</p> <p class="p3">Cavenaugh envisions a city soon packed with similar “only-in-Portland” microrestaurant pods and chains. One of the next is the Zipper, another “experimental” microproject boasting a shared commissary kitchen and five food spaces, planned for NE Sandy Boulevard. “One space is only 380 square feet,” Cavenaugh confesses. “I’m going even smaller.”</p> <p class="p1"><strong> </strong><strong> </strong></p> <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":23308,"width":"414","height":"347","top":"453","left":"0","scale_width":"200"}" data-image-id="23308" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2013/1/image/23308/0213-slowburger-2.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2013%2F1%2Fimage%2F23308%2F0213-slowburger-2.jpg&cropify=414x347%2B0%2B453&resize=200x%3E" alt="Slowburger at the Ocean" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 200px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/dina-avila">Dina Avila</a></div> </div> </div> </div> <p class="bigbold"><a title="Slowburger Listing" href="/restaurants/slowburger" target="_self"><strong>SLOWBURGER</strong></a><strong>  <em> </em></strong></p> <p class="p2"><strong>Chosen Subject: </strong>The gluttonous, gruyère-cloaked, onion ring–topped objet d’art made famous at Southeast Portland’s Slow Bar, plus other burgers, onion rings, and fries served in a snug, retro-style diner</p> <p class="p3"><strong>Stuff Your Face: </strong>Brioche-bunned burgers, meaty and monstrous. But the real surprise is the genuinely great veggie burger: a creamy-yet-chunky black bean and roasted corn patty stacked with guacamole, pepper jack cheese, spicy mayo, and crunchy tortilla bits. </p> <p class="p3"><strong>Be Warned: </strong>Sliders are often overcooked and precariously tall, thanks to their laundry list of toppings. Stick with the heftier patties. </p> <p class="p3"> <strong> </strong></p> <div class="inline-image-right inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":23309,"width":"531","height":"768","top":"32","left":"0","scale_width":"200"}" data-image-id="23309" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-right"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2013/1/image/23309/0213-24th-and-meatballs.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2013%2F1%2Fimage%2F23309%2F0213-24th-and-meatballs.jpg&cropify=531x768%2B0%2B32&resize=200x%3E" alt="24th and Meatball at the Ocean" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 200px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/dina-avila">Dina Avila</a></div> </div> </div> </div> <p class="p1"><a class="bigbold" title="24th and Meatballs Listing" href="/restaurants/24th-and-meatballs" target="_self"><strong>2</strong></a><strong><a class="bigbold" title="24th and Meatballs Listing" href="/restaurants/24th-and-meatballs" target="_self">4TH & MEATBALLS</a> </strong></p> <p class="p2"><strong>Chosen Subject:</strong> Balls—beef, chicken, even vegan—snuggled in rolls, swimming in sauce or atop pasta from fine dining vet and Tabla owner Adam Berger. A boxing mural emblazoned with dirty “ball” puns counts for décor in this avocado-green man cave.</p> <p class="p3"><strong>Stuff Your Face:</strong><strong> </strong>Stick with classic Italian spicy balls, smothered in sweet tomato basil sauce and packed inside a sloppy hero. Make room for a smoky kale salad and some seriously creamy, cheesy polenta. Get silly and order the $1 “Kool-Aid of the day.”</p> <p class="p3"><strong>Be Warned:</strong><strong> </strong>Despite claims of PDX’s “tastiest balls,” the sides often outshine the inconsistent main event. The gluten-free chicken balls are rubbery and sad.</p> <p class="p1"><strong> </strong></p> <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":23310,"width":"531","height":"800","top":"0","left":"0","scale_width":"200"}" data-image-id="23310" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2013/1/image/23310/0213-basa-basa.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2013%2F1%2Fimage%2F23310%2F0213-basa-basa.jpg&cropify=531x800%2B0%2B0&resize=200x%3E" alt="Basa Basa at the Ocean" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 200px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/dina-avila">Dina Avila</a></div> </div> </div> </div> <p class="p1"><strong><a class="bigbold" title="Basa Basa Listing" href="/restaurants/basa-basa" target="_self">BASA BASA</a> </strong></p> <p class="p2"><strong>Chosen Subject:</strong><strong> </strong>Korean hot wings according to a pair of cooking pros in a Zen-modern spot with a premium on service. Cavenaugh calls it “faster than McDonald’s, but with Draper Valley chicken and recipes by a Beard award winner.” </p> <p class="p3"><strong>Stuff Your Face: </strong>These<strong> </strong>deep-fried wings are hot, salty, crunchy stoner-food heaven. The craggy coating clings to a trio of intense, aromatic Asian sauces that John Pence makes fresh daily. At $10, six big wings with mixed sauces, a scoop of mellow macaroni salad, and rice is a steal.</p> <p class="p3"><strong>Be Warned: </strong>Takeout orders are a bust.<strong> </strong>That puffy magic coating wilts after a long road trip in a steamy bucket.</p> <p class="p3"> </p> <p class="p1"><strong> </strong></p> <div class="inline-image-right inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":23313,"width":"531","height":"738","top":"62","left":"0","scale_width":"200"}" data-image-id="23313" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-right"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2013/1/image/23313/0213-uno-mas-taquiza.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2013%2F1%2Fimage%2F23313%2F0213-uno-mas-taquiza.jpg&cropify=531x738%2B0%2B62&resize=200x%3E" alt="Uno Mas Taquiza at the Ocean" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 200px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/dina-avila">Dina Avila</a></div> </div> </div> </div> <p class="bigbold"><strong><a title="Uno Mas Taquiza" href="/restaurants/uno-mas-taquiza" target="_self">UNO MAS TAQUIZA </a> </strong></p> <p class="p1"><strong></strong><strong>Chosen Subject:</strong><strong> </strong>Tacos—nearly two dozen varieties of them. From the electric blue walls to the caution-tape-yellow stools, Bibiano’s taquiza feels as bright and zingy as one of his rotating house-made salsas. He says the spot was inspired by traditional Mexican operations, where “you try one taco and say, ‘<em>Mmm, uno mas, por favor</em>!’”</p> <p class="p3"><strong>Stuff Your Face: </strong>Three consistently excellent options are the tender little tortillas cradling garlickly, lime-laced octopus; a clove-scented mound of barbacoa sprinkled with onions; and the fiery prawns, marinated in four different chiles (<em>endiablado</em>).</p> <p class="p3"><strong>Be Warned: </strong>Don’t be put off by the Lilliputian size of the $2–3.75 offerings; Uno Mas packs a lot of flavor into a three-bite taco. Order a dozen “chef’s choice” tacos for $20. </p> Wed, 23 Jan 2013 14:30:00 -0800 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/go-small-or-go-home-february-2013 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/go-small-or-go-home-february-2013 Animal House <div class="inline-image-block inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":22054,"width":"662","height":"752","top":"12","left":"0","scale_width":"500"}" data-image-id="22054" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-block"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/12/image/22054/0113-ox-clam-chowder.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F12%2Fimage%2F22054%2F0113-ox-clam-chowder.jpg&cropify=662x752%2B0%2B12&resize=500x%3E" alt="Ox Restaurant clam chowder" /> </a> <div class="inline-image-caption" style="width: 500px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/leah-nash">Leah Nash</a></div> At Ox, clam chowder’s make-over arrives with smoked marrow bone, jalapeños, and wicked decadence.</div> </div> </div> <div class="text-box-right" style="font-size: 1em;"> <p class="boldcaps" style="font-size: 1em; text-align: left;"><a style="font-size: 1em;" title="OX Listing" href="/restaurants/ox" target="_self">OX</a></p> <address style="font-size: 1em;"><strong style="font-size: 1em;">2225 NE MLK Jr. Blvd</strong><br style="font-size: 1em;" /><strong style="font-size: 1em;"> Portland, Oregon 97212</strong><br style="font-size: 1em;" /><strong style="font-size: 1em;"> 503-284-3366</strong></address><address style="font-size: 1em;"><strong style="font-size: 1em;"><br /></strong></address><strong>EAT THIS NOW</strong> <ul> <li>Wood-fired ricotta</li> <li>Braised tripe & octopus</li> <li>Maple-glazed pork chop</li> <li><em>Tres leches</em> cake </li> </ul> <address style="font-size: 1em;"><strong style="font-size: 1em;"><br /></strong></address></div> <p class="p1"><span class="boldcaps">Nearly everything</span> about Ox can be found elsewhere in Portland’s foodscape: wood-fired cooking, farm-connected ingredients, hourlong waits, dingy neighborhood location, hard chairs, cocktails brimming with strong medicine. Generic rock hogs the sound system. Votives cast soft light over worn bricks, clustered black tables, and a teeny bar custom-built for flirting. The room is friendly, and a bit polished by Portland’s patch-it-together standards—but hardly a looker.</p> <p class="p3">And yet, this boisterous storefront on NE MLK Jr. Boulevard stands apart from and above the current fashions. At the entrance, the flames of a hand-cranked grill greet you like the burning bush. Ox has a message: follow us into a land where risk, reach, and familiarity can live together. Call it the next iteration of the steak house, twisted with moments of food mania and haute sorcery to match an Argentine barbecue aesthetic and a wine list heavy with meaty reds. Or perhaps it’s the fresh face of fine dining in Portland—the new night on the town, with its own set of casual mix-and-match rituals.  </p> <div class="inline-slideshow-left inline-slideshow mceNonEditable" data-include-caption="true" data-slideshow-id="957"> <div align="center"> <div class="slideshow-image-div"><a class="slideshow-image-link" href="/slideshows/slide-show-ox-january-2013"> <span class="slideshow-image-wrapper" style="width: 230px;"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F12%2Fimage%2F21949%2F20121117_ox_067.jpg&resize=230x" alt="" /> </span> </a></div> <div class="inline-slideshow-caption" style="width: 230px;">Ox's cozy digs on NE MLK Jr. Blvd <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/leah-nash">Leah Nash</a></div> </div> </div> </div> <p class="p3">An evening moves easily from audacity to primitivism to elegance. One minute you’re engulfed in the euphoria of a smoked beef tongue salad, plucking up paper-thin shingles of shockingly delicate meat, heady snorts of horseradish, the salty tingle of a caper vinaigrette, creamy-firm bites of potato salad, and, not least, wonderfully weird “croutons” forged from fried sweetbreads of all things. The moment segues to a Neanderthal dream as slabs of steak, pure and simple, char to perfection over a fire hot enough to blow glass, erupting<strong> </strong>right before your eyes.<strong> </strong>The final hour turns to a modernist statement: a hazelnut torte and honey-chamomile ice cream impaled with a sculpture of honeycomb candy. This is food as medical marijuana.</p> <p class="p3">Greg Denton, driven daredevil and fine-dining pro, is the king of disconnected pleasures. Ever since he fell hard for an Easy-Bake Oven at age 4, Denton has never looked back. His path snaked from family-run food chains to tony eateries in Vermont and the Napa Valley. Along the way, he snagged a culinary diploma with honors; bailed from food god Thomas Keller’s Bouchon; cooked for the Dalai Lama; survived the sinking of Portland’s <em>Titanic</em> (Lucier, the doomed luxury restaurant that lured him here in 2008); built a cult following for hedonistic burgers and fantastical charcuterie at Metrovino; and earned a reputation as the city’s Next Big Talent. At 36, Denton is his own man at last, backed by both ubiquitous local restaurant talent scout ChefStable and his chef-wife, longtime kitchen sidekick Gabrielle Quiñónez Denton.</p> <div class="inline-image-block inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"scaling-type":"in-proportion","fill-color":"#000000","height":636,"left":"0","top":"0","width":800,"scale":"100"}" data-image-id="22053" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-block"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/12/image/22053/0113-ox-restaurant-collage.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F12%2Fimage%2F22053%2F0113-ox-restaurant-collage.jpg&cropify=800x636%2B0%2B0&resize=640x%3E" alt="Ox restaurant " /> </a> <div class="inline-image-caption" style="width: 640px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/leah-nash">Leah Nash</a></div> Clockwise from above: chef-owners Greg and Gabrielle Quiñónez Denton; Ox’s grill; lamb shoulder chops with smoking rosemary</div> </div> </div> <p class="p3">Six nights a week, Denton sweats out his new life over a customized Argentine grill, commanding racks to rise or plunge over punishing heat at the turn of the wheels. At any moment, 60 items—and seemingly every quirk in Portland’s food nation—might be in play. </p> <div class="inline-image-right inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":22055,"width":"800","height":"820","top":"0","left":"0","scale_width":"300"}" data-image-id="22055" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-right"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/12/image/22055/0113-ox-restaurant-2.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F12%2Fimage%2F22055%2F0113-ox-restaurant-2.jpg&cropify=800x820%2B0%2B0&resize=300x%3E" alt="Ox Restaurant " /> </a> <div class="inline-image-caption" style="width: 300px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/leah-nash">Leah Nash</a></div> Clockwise from top left: Ox’s mix-and-match style book includes tats and clipboards; bar manager Jamal Hassan’s playful mixology; the dining room</div> </div> </div> <p class="p3">Prime real estate goes to a parade of chops, rib eyes, and chorizo glazed in “black gold”—Denton’s secret weapon of juiced-up drippings. The grill’s pescetarian section houses a beastly cut of wild halibut on the bone, surfing the flames like a buff T-bone. It’s an impressive idea, eventually overcome by olive oil and fried garlic. Meanwhile, anything with nuts is banished to the grill’s outer edges. That includes Ox’s devilishly good morcilla (Spanish blood sausage), kicked up with ground walnuts. Lest vegans feel excluded, Denton gets giddy with vegetables in the pit’s red-hot basement, the best of them a blackened spaghetti squash smelling of garlic and ashen coals. </p> <p class="p3">The attention to detail pays off. Ox has been crushed since day one last spring. Any place that can draw your dad, ingredient-phobic friends, and serious eaters is doing something right. </p> <p class="p3">For a night of good eating, meats are the building blocks. The skirt steak delivers nothing short of a pure beef explosion, and the grunt-worthy, maple-brined pork chop arrives like an homage to bestial glory: naked on a plate, excruciatingly tender, and boasting pockets of beauty hard to imagine in a brick-size chunk of meat. Order both.  </p> <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":22056,"width":"662","height":"752","top":"12","left":"0","scale_width":"200"}" data-image-id="22056" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/12/image/22056/0113-tres-leches-cake.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F12%2Fimage%2F22056%2F0113-tres-leches-cake.jpg&cropify=662x752%2B0%2B12&resize=200x%3E" alt="tres leches cake" /> </a> <div class="inline-image-caption" style="width: 200px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/leah-nash">Leah Nash</a></div> Boldly beautiful tres leches cake</div> </div> </div> <p class="p3"> As good as the protein is, look to the starters to tap Denton’s particular brand of evil genius—addictive flavors that make followers see chakra colors. My ideal Ox meal begins with these heady surprises: wood-fired ricotta, a warm cloud of cream, crust, and heaven; fried short-rib terrine, a “holy cow” moment of shredded beef, oxtail, and parmesan bound and sizzled in ultra-crisp crumbs; clam chowder as you’ve never tasted it, courtesy of smoked bone marrow and ear-warming chiles jutting bravely from its creamy depths; and a tripe and tomato stew reborn with braised octopus and a blaze of mint aioli. It’s the stuff of culinary lore: rustic, sensuous, bright, and fierce. Tripe made sexy? Trust me, you can’t stop eating it. </p> <p class="p3">Still, nirvana is not guaranteed. Empanadas are surprisingly blank. Sides, braises, and desserts can overdose on obvious ideas hit with a heavy hammer of ingredients. Ash-roasted onions seem delivered from another restaurant, crowded with beets, blue cheese, walnuts, and frantic swirls of balsamic. Sided by upright alfajor cookies and swatches of caramel, the <em>tres leches</em> cake is boldly beautiful—but few desserts hit that focused, Dentonesque “eureka” note. Sorbets cloaked in baseballs of “chocolate magic shells,” further elucidated with nuts and fruits, can leave you longing for an apple.  </p> <p class="p3">As they roar ahead, the Dentons need look only to their own gutsy, point-of-view cooking: the crazy things and simple things. Let both the fears and the formulas go. Ox’s blend of boeuf, bravado, and brains is already a formidable beast. </p> Fri, 14 Dec 2012 20:55:00 -0800 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/animal-house-ox-restaurant-january-2013 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/animal-house-ox-restaurant-january-2013 Slide Show: A Night at Ox And inside look at Ox, the Argentine-inspired meat haven on NE MLK Jr. Blvd <br /> <br /> <span style="background-color:#ECECEC; padding: 5px; display:block;"> <strong>Related Article:<br /> <a href="/eat-and-drink/restaurant-reviews/articles/animal-house-ox-restaurant-january-2013">Animal House</a></strong><br /> <em>Ox restaurant ignites a new steak experience: brazen, barbecued, and beautiful.</em></span> <br /> Fri, 14 Dec 2012 09:39:00 -0800 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/slide-show-ox-january-2013 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/slide-show-ox-january-2013 Portland's Best Bagels <div class="inline-image-block inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"scaling-type":"in-proportion","fill-color":"#000000","height":667,"left":"0","top":"0","width":1000,"scale":"100"}" data-image-id="21195" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-block"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/11/image/21195/1212-portlands-best-bagels.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F11%2Fimage%2F21195%2F1212-portlands-best-bagels.jpg&cropify=1000x667%2B0%2B0&resize=640x%3E" alt="All of Portland's best bagels" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 640px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/lincoln-barbour">Lincoln Barbour</a></div> </div> </div> </div> <p class="p1"><span class="boldcaps">Dough bobs like a yeasty life preserver</span> in a boiling sea of malted water. Hand-formed coils encrusted with European salts and farm-fresh leeks brown in blistering ovens. Even cream cheese goes experimental in tart revelations of Korean kimchi and chewy veins of salted caramel. On the heels of pizza, ramen, and ice cream, bagels have finally joined local artisans’ quest for new flavors of perfection.</p> <p class="p3">After years of enduring loofah impersonations, locals are embracing a brave new clan of bagelmeisters who lather tradition with the taste of Portland: unorthodox and ingredient-focused. Where else are you going to find a baker’s dozen and hand-smoked Columbia River steelhead lox served from a food truck? Jewish grandmothers, avert your eyes: here come pastrami charcuterie boards, paired with bacon cream cheese and Manischewitz-spiked daiquiris.</p> <p class="p3">The explorations are just beginning. Here are five contenders for Portland’s holey grail.</p> <p class="bigbold"><strong>The Empire Builder: </strong><a title="Kenny and Zuke's Listing" href="/restaurants/kenny-and-zukes" target="_self"><strong>Kenny and Zuke’s</strong></a></p> <p class="p2"><em>Multiple locations; <a title="Kenny and Zuke's" href="http://www.kennyandzukes.com/" target="_blank">kennyandzukes.com </a></em></p> <p class="p3">Kenny and Zuke’s helped pioneer Portland’s artisan Jewish deli movement in 2007. Judging by this year’s rapid expansions, owner Ken Gordon has bigger whitefish to fry: wholesale networks in coffee shops and supermarkets, an all-bagel spinoff shop, and a late-night Deli Bar serving serious cocktails and a “Jew-cuterie board” sporting pastrami rillettes. Indeed, Kenny and Zuke’s turns out a respectable bagel with a tight, honey-brown skin, but it’s marred at times by super-sweet flesh. The overall selection appeals, however, from monthly salt bagels courtesy of local expert Mark Bitterman to a pumpernickel that could pass for ebony.</p> <p class="p4"><strong>Schmear Factor</strong>  A modest lineup includes a maple syrup–infused schmear with cracks of walnut and a briny green olive cream cheese with flecks of succulent pimento.   </p> <p class="p4"><strong>The Holey Grail</strong>  Cheddar-Pecorino—cheesy umami dough meets a flaky Tillamook cheddar crust. </p> <p class="p4"> </p> <p class="bigbold"><strong>The Wood-Fired Locavore: </strong><a title="Tastebud Listing" href="/restaurants/tastebud" target="_self"><strong>Tastebud</strong> </a></p> <p class="p2"><em>Hillsdale and PSU Farmers Markets; <a title="Tastebud " href="http://tastebudfarm.com/" target="_blank">tastebudfarm.com</a></em></p> <p class="p3">Mark Doxtader, Montreal Bagel School apostle and farmers market advocate, flies in his own bagel orbit. After a boil in malt-sweetened water, Doxtader’s rings are charred over a wood fire for a dark caramel sheen that yields to swirls of amber banded beneath the exterior. Each small, compact variation is a little model of perfection, rolled in a black cloud of poppy seeds or scented with fresh leeks—none of the usual bitter-tinged onions. Seasonal ingredients, like roasted peppers, are gleaned from neighboring booths at Doxtader’s usual haunts, the Portland and Hillsdale Farmers Markets. </p> <p class="p4"><strong>Schmear Factor</strong><strong>  </strong>Doxtader scours the markets for the finest chives, the most feathery dill, and the best local honey to fold into his creamy base for a fresh, bright selection.</p> <p class="p4"><strong>The Holey Grail  </strong>Leek—confetti strips of blackened leeks sing sweet, toasted-onion notes. </p> <p class="p4"> </p> <p class="bigbold"><strong>The New “Portland style”:</strong><a title="Spielman Coffee Roasters" href="/restaurants/spielman-coffee-roasters" target="_self"><strong> Spielman Coffee Roasters</strong> </a></p> <p class="p2"><em>2128 SE Division St; 503-467-0600</em></p> <div class="inline-image-right inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":21196,"width":"678","height":"667","top":"0","left":"176","scale_width":"200"}" data-image-id="21196" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-right"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/11/image/21196/1212_bagel_spielmans.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F11%2Fimage%2F21196%2F1212_bagel_spielmans.jpg&cropify=678x667%2B176%2B0&resize=200x%3E" alt="Spielman's Salt & Pepper Bagel" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 200px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/lincoln-barbour">Lincoln Barbour</a></div> Spielman's Salt & Pepper Bagel</div> </div> </div> <p class="p3">At this tiny, year-old shop, a small-batch sourdough bagel can be dispatched with a cup of microroasted coffee from a gigantic steam-punk roaster just steps away from the oven. It doesn’t get more Portland than this. After 15 years in the coffee roasting trenches, Rick Spielman made an impressive leap into his own, self-made bagel world. He’s staking his brand on the little-known sourdough bagel, putting its tart flavor at the center of a dozen variations, from sweet golden raisin and fennel to the “Seedy,” collaged with the gold, black, and green seeds of flax, watermelon, and pumpkin. Purists might scoff at the powerfully tangy sour foundation, but Spielman’s tight, thick-crusted beauties are arguably leading the Portland pack, proudly wearing freshly ground spices and crackling faithfully with each bite.</p> <p class="p4"><strong>Schmear Factor  </strong>All the thick-whipped cream cheese schmears are worth a swab, especially the perversely delicious salted caramel, tasting like a heavenly cheesecake with caramelized sugar and dairy tang. The roasted peppers, zucchini, and garlic option holds a buckshot of freshness. </p> <p class="p4"><strong>The Holey Grail</strong><strong>  </strong>Salt & Pepper—complex, with huge flakes of salt and sinus-clearing <br /> pepper flavor.</p> <p class="p4"> </p> <p class="bigbold"><strong>The Food Cart Upstart: </strong><a title="Alice's Bagels Listing" href="/food_carts/alices-bagels" target="_self"><strong>Alice’s Bagels</strong></a></p> <p class="p1"><span class="s1"><em>4262 SE Belmont St; <a href="https://www.facebook.com/AlicesBagels" target="_blank">facebook.com/alicesbagels</a></em></span></p> <p class="p2">Recent Reed College graduate Alice Newton is putting her chemistry degree to good use, cold-fermenting dough and house-curing Columbia River steelhead lox, sourced from cart-neighbor Fishbox and sliced to order. Inside her A-framed cart in the Good Food Here pod on SE Belmont Street, Newton sells a perfectly sized bagel that weighs in at just 3.5 ounces—a featherweight compared to today’s supersize standard. A pillow-soft crumb and salty dough await within a mahogany bubbling crust that looks more like fossilized amber than boiled breadstuff. </p> <p class="p4"><strong>Schmear Factor</strong><strong>  </strong>You can’t go wrong with the sweet and savory maple-bacon spread, with big chunks of super smoky meat and deep Grade B maple syrup. </p> <p class="p4"><strong>Holey Grail</strong><strong>  </strong>Sesame—featuring crunchy clumps of toasted, malt-glazed sesame seeds.</p> <p class="p4"> </p> <p class="bigbold"><strong>A New York State of Mind: </strong><a title="Bowery Bagels Listing" href="/restaurants/bowery-bagels" target="_self"><strong>Bowery Bagels</strong></a></p> <p class="p2"><em>310 NW Broadway; </em><a title="Bowery Bagels " href="http://bowerybagels.com/" target="_blank"><em>bowerybagels.com </em></a></p> <p class="p3">At his new downtown bagel shop disguised as a gleaming Manhattan subway station, Michael Madigan chases the New York memories of his youth with a dozen classics and the occasional oddball flavors (miso-soy-ginger, we’re looking at you). Bowery’s bagels are exactly what we’d expect from a solid New York carb-bomb: a nicely bronzed exterior flush with blisters from fermentation, a healthy chew, and subtle yeasty undertones. </p> <p class="p4"><strong>Schmear Factor</strong><strong>  </strong>For a bagel shop so closely wedded to tradition, the cream cheese selection has schmeared slightly off-course. Spreads like the BOM (bacon, onion, mushroom) are heavy and overwhelming, while the kimchi variety reminds us that fermented fish sauce and Nova lox are not the same thing. </p> <p class="p4"><strong>Holey Grail  </strong>Cinnamon Raisin Spice—sweet globs of raisin, with deep flavors from across the spice spectrum. </p> <p> </p> Wed, 21 Nov 2012 11:57:00 -0800 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/portlands-best-bagels-december-2012 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/portlands-best-bagels-december-2012 Baptism by Fire <div class="inline-image-block inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":18581,"width":"751","height":"860","top":"118","left":"0","scale_width":"640"}" data-image-id="18581" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-block"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/9/image/18581/1012-nedludd-brandoncunningham.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F9%2Fimage%2F18581%2F1012-nedludd-brandoncunningham.jpg&cropify=751x860%2B0%2B118&resize=640x%3E" alt="Brandon Cunningham behind counter at Ned Ludd." /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 640px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> “Ice wizard” Brandon Cunningham tackles kitchen duties at Ned Ludd.</div> </div> </div> <div class="text-box-right"> <p class="boldcaps"><a title="Ned Ludd Listing" href="/restaurants/ned-ludd" target="_self">NED LUDD</a></p> <address><strong>3925 NE MLK Jr Blvd</strong><br /><strong> Portland, Oregon 97212</strong><br /><strong> 503-288-6900</strong></address> <p class="boldcaps">EAT THIS NOW</p> <ul> <li>House pickle plate</li> <li>Salads (any and all)</li> <li>Whole roasted trout</li> <li>Oven-kissed chocolate chip cookie</li> </ul> </div> <p class="p1"><strong class="boldcaps">A</strong><span class="boldcaps">n infectious</span> blend of joy, conviction, and black comedy haunts every inch of a hidden space deep inside Portland’s most eccentric patch of food and concrete. Semi-dark light casts cinematic shadows over a wall-to-wall shrine of cooking artifacts, gnarled tree limbs, mossy branches, old botanical prints, historic Portland photos, and flowers in every stage of life. In this homesteader’s cabin gone mad, an ancient scale, a forgotten copper egg pot, and a rusted milk pail stand like proud survivors of the industrial food takeover. This is one man’s stand on self-sufficiency, an art exhibit of hand-forged humor, and a commentary on nature’s profound beauty, dead or alive. And that’s just the bathroom at Ned Ludd.</p> <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":18575,"width":"750","height":"837","top":"47","left":"0","scale_width":"200"}" data-image-id="18575" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/9/image/18575/1012-nedludd-cabinbathroom.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F9%2Fimage%2F18575%2F1012-nedludd-cabinbathroom.jpg&cropify=750x837%2B0%2B47&resize=200x%3E" alt="Ned Ludd’s mad cabin bathroom" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 200px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> Ned Ludd’s mad cabin bathroom</div> </div> </div> <p class="p3">The playful depth of this unmarked eatery on NE MLK Boulevard never lets up, from the name (after the 18th-century British anti-industrial folk hero, from whom the term “Luddite” springs) to the menu quoting Wendell Berry. Greeting you at the entrance: an old wooden blasting-cap crate is stamped with a warning: “Keep Away from Fire.” It’s a sly wink to the house fetish for wood. Kindling is everywhere. Rescued sticks and stumps lounge on shelves alongside ceramic chickens and cooking implements that look like relics from Sherman’s march. Burly logs that double as décor feed a wood-burning oven, the only stove in the house. </p> <p class="p3">This six-foot-deep red-brick monster once hosted pizzas in a doomed Italian-barbecue joint. Now, Ned Ludd’s staff of self-proclaimed “fire dancers and ice wizards” juggles a more challenging guest list in the 750-degree cavern: baked-to-order flatbreads; temperamental vegetables; hard-nosed meats; delicate fish; even an outsize chocolate chip cookie rising in a cast-iron skillet, its craggy, salt-crunching surface emerging one lucky degree shy of torched. Served warm with a spoon and the suggestion to douse each bite with cold milk, it’s the sum total of Ned Ludd’s reward: a sweet, demented pleasure. </p> <div class="inline-image-right inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":18582,"width":"1000","height":"750","top":"0","left":"0","scale_width":"140"}" data-image-id="18582" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-right"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/9/image/18582/1012-nedludd-trout.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F9%2Fimage%2F18582%2F1012-nedludd-trout.jpg&cropify=1000x750%2B0%2B0&resize=140x%3E" alt="wood-fired trout" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 140px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> The signature wood-fired trout</div> </div> </div> <p class="p3"> Behind the mood is lanky Jason French, a one-time butcher, waiter, teacher, cheese importer, Michelin-star dreamer, alum of Paley’s Place and Clarklewis, and as the face of Ned Ludd for five years running, an inspired avatar of DIY grit and charm. With his I-did-it-my-way bluster, locavore know-how, gift of food-nerd gab, and arms inked with images of the antique cookery and hand-cranked meat grinders scattered around the dining room, French is the reigning poster boy for everything to love and parody about Portland life.   </p> <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":18579,"width":"726","height":"887","top":"113","left":"24","scale_width":"300"}" data-image-id="18579" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/9/image/18579/1012-jason-french-kitchen.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F9%2Fimage%2F18579%2F1012-jason-french-kitchen.jpg&cropify=726x887%2B24%2B113&resize=300x%3E" alt="Chef Jason French" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 300px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> Chef, owner, and “Goodwiller” guy Jason French</div> </div> </div> <p class="p3">What’s been missing from the place is really good food, consistently. Before opening Ned Ludd in 2008, French had never fully faced the fickle fury of wood fire. It showed. Behind the homey ideal of “rustic cooking” lies an all-consuming, think-on-your-feet universe. No two fires are alike. The elusive taste of campfire glee comes with caveats. Wet wood: deal with it. Smoldering black hole: figure it out. Autopilot cooking is not an option. But after years of, um, misfires, French has mastered the heat in the kitchen. The once-erratic menu now burns with confidence. Dishes crackle with good char. And at age 42, the determined cook and self-styled “Goodwiller Guy” has sparked some of the year’s best meals.</p> <p class="p3">The menu is an unwavering expression of the season. Dishes change not just daily but sometimes midmeal. Best advice: go with what looks interesting. The territory is offbeat yet accessible, classically rooted but punctuated with surprise. One night’s haul: a typically genteel vichyssoise soup, reborn as a peppery, sour, earthy jolt of cress, potatoes, and leeks in high-def green, followed by boisterous shards of braised lamb cloaking smoky charred peppers and irreverent splashes of fresh yogurt. It’s your Jersey uncle in the holy land. Another journey turned up a monumental whole roasted trout over exuberantly blackened onions shooting off the plate with dramatic abandon, and a daredevil makeover of pasta and peas starring the kitchen’s own pork-skin noodles (think pork-flavored Gummi Bears). </p> <div class="inline-image-block inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":18576,"width":"918","height":"628","top":"0","left":"0","scale_width":"640"}" data-image-id="18576" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-block"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/9/image/18576/1012-nedludd-brickoven.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F9%2Fimage%2F18576%2F1012-nedludd-brickoven.jpg&cropify=918x628%2B0%2B0&resize=640x%3E" alt="Ned Ludd brick oven" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 640px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> The monster-sized brick oven</div> </div> </div> <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":18578,"width":"657","height":"947","top":"53","left":"40","scale_width":"200"}" data-image-id="18578" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/9/image/18578/1012-jasonfrench-diningroom.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F9%2Fimage%2F18578%2F1012-jasonfrench-diningroom.jpg&cropify=657x947%2B40%2B53&resize=200x%3E" alt="Chef Jason French roams the dining room at Ned Ludd" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 200px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> Chef Jason French roams the dining room</div> </div> </div> <p class="p3">French may be the best salad man in town. I’d do voodoo for another taste of his New Zealand spinach leaves, still clinging to their vines and dancing with ruby-red strawberries, purple flowers, and soothing blobs of goat cheese, all drizzled with Saba, the grape juice of liqueurs. Pickled cherries, home-smoked duck bacon, and curious greens like purslane and chrysanthemum parade through assemblages built around contrast, discovery, and beautiful balance. Order a collection of them. </p> <p class="p3">Weekend brunch remains Ned Ludd’s best-kept secret. Where else can you waltz in the door to a feast of fried duck eggs on brioche toast, smoked trout hash, and a kingly, berry-packed muffin-cum-pancake edged with fire?  </p> <p class="p3">Sometimes flavors flail out of control. French’s love of crazy acidity can leave you squinting harder than Clint Eastwood. The oven can still be unforgiving, sucking the juice out of meat. And be warned: the granola will give your molars a workout, and not in a good way. </p> <div class="inline-image-right inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":18580,"width":"918","height":"628","top":"0","left":"0","scale_width":"200"}" data-image-id="18580" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-right"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/9/image/18580/1012-nedludd-chicken.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F9%2Fimage%2F18580%2F1012-nedludd-chicken.jpg&cropify=918x628%2B0%2B0&resize=200x%3E" alt="A ceramic chicken at Ned Ludd Restaurant" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 200px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> A ceramic chicken in a typical nook at Ned Ludd</div> </div> </div> <p class="p3">But these days, the flameouts are rare. Even French acknowledges that something has changed. He envisioned this place as a refuge from an insane world, a place for discovery in a world lost in homogeny. “I’m not in this to win the James Beard Award,” he says. “In all these years, I’ve never called myself a chef.”</p> <p class="p3">Don’t tell that to French’s staff, who know him by one name only: “Chef.” They drop his name in conversation the way NBA players refer to “Coach” in post-game interviews. No first or last names. Just: Chef says this, Chef says that. It’s the ultimate sign of respect—and after five years of taming the fire, a well-deserved title.</p> Thu, 13 Sep 2012 11:37:00 -0700 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/ned-ludd-restaurant-review-october-2012 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/ned-ludd-restaurant-review-october-2012 Introducing: Paulée <div class="inline-image-block inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":17131,"width":1000,"height":667,"top":"0","left":"0","scale_width":"640"}" data-image-id="17131" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-block"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/8/image/17131/0912-dsf-kitchen.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F8%2Fimage%2F17131%2F0912-dsf-kitchen.jpg&cropify=1000x667%2B0%2B0&resize=640x%3E" alt="Paulée Restaurant" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 640px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/john-valls-courtesy-paulee">John Valls, Courtesy Paulée</a></div> </div> </div> </div> <div class="text-box-right" style="font-size: 1em;"> <p class="boldcaps" style="font-size: 1em;"><a href="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/restaurants/paulee" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: 1em;">PAULÉE</span></a></p> <address style="font-size: 1em;"><strong>1410 N Hwy 99W</strong><br style="font-size: 1em;" /><strong> Dundee, Oregon </strong><br style="font-size: 1em;" /><strong> 503-538-7970</strong></address><address style="font-size: 1em;"> </address></div> <p>NOTHING ABOUT the generic hotel façade off Highway 99 hints at what waits inside: wine country’s most ambitious food gambit. Step inside the new Paulée to witness the big-city gleam of stone, steel, and glass that fills the generous 90-seat restaurant, clad in dark walnut. A 14-foot glass wine cellar—a thousand bottles strong, and deep in Northwest grapes—anchors the room. Meats come from down the road, and nearly half the produce is grown next door—pristine fodder for the studied experiments that arrive stacked like still lifes on stark white plates. Protruding into the dining room is a chef’s counter—the stage for a full battalion of aproned chefs tweezing away at all manner of precious Willamette Valley provenance.</p> <p class="p2">Chef-owner Daniel Mondok won accolades in Portland for his mash-up of French technique and American quirk at Sel Gris on SE Hawthorne Boulevard. But that tiny gem fell to fire damage in 2009. At Paulée, he’s still throwing witty culinary jabs, but with globe-hopping twists and modernist presentations—what he calls “Sel Gris on steroids.”</p> <p class="p2">Categories roam freely from tartares to pasta-based dishes to very French meat treatments. King salmon with cracker-crisp skin arrives over “Israeli couscous mac and cheese,” tossed with cheddar-like Cantal and a wink of haute Kraft. Flavors and inclinations draw from every corner of the planet: deep-fried cuttlefish tossed in a bath of Vietnamese <em>nuoc cham</em>—fish sauce, lime, <em>sambal</em>, and sugar—and duck breast, crusted in<em> </em>Sichuan peppercorns, boasts the earthy smoke of black tea <em>jus</em>.</p> <p class="p2">The drink program impresses, with 48 enomatic wines on tap and 10 on the <em>perlage</em> (sparkling preservation) system. Sommelier Brandon Tebbe pours rare vintages and smartly advises tricky pairings to Mondok’s food-craft. After all, this is still wine country.</p> <p class="p2"> </p> Sun, 26 Aug 2012 12:25:00 -0700 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/paulee-review-september-2012 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/paulee-review-september-2012 Blurring the Borders <div class="inline-image-block inline-image mceNonEditable" data-image-id="5857" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-block"> </div> <div class="text-box-right" style="font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 40px;"> <p class="boldcaps" style="font-size: 1em;"><a style="font-size: 1em;" title="Smallwares Listing" href="/restaurants/small-wares" target="_self">SMALLWARES</a></p> <address style="font-size: 1em;"><strong>4605 NE Fremont St</strong><br style="font-size: 1em;" /><strong>971-229-0995</strong></address> <p class="boldcaps" style="font-size: 1em;">EAT THIS NOW</p> <ul style="font-size: 1em;"> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Spot prawns</li> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Rapini, pickled raisins, pine nuts</li> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Mapo dofu</li> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Lemongrass pork sandwich</li> </ul> </div> <p><strong><span class="caps"><span class="caps">SMALLWARES</span></span> <span class="caps"><span class="caps">BRINGS</span></span> A <span class="caps"><span class="caps">RAFFISH</span></span></strong> air of feral youth, lipstick hues, and tongue-tingling spices to the family-values village of Beaumont. Red windows cast film-noir light on a room that recalls a Chinese drinking club reimagined by Ikea. Behind an elongated bar, happy staffers shake to the metronomic beats of the Cars. At tiny tables, a motley of Korean noodles, Japanese comforts, Oregon larder, hallucinogenic heat, and bits of candied meat tumbles through a parade of tight, precise dishes. Italian olive oil even drizzles into the act. In these casual quarters, the snacking is fearless, and so is the thinking.</p> <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-image-id="5858" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> A neighborhood away, Aviary spins a different mood: a cinder-block bunker of modest reserve</div> <p>serving culinary provocations on a stretch of NE Alberta Street known more for hipster aspirations than serious eating. The aura of indie music and industrial kitchen clanking is familiar, but audacity runs through a menu of globe-smashing intrigue. It takes chutzpah to put crunchy chicken skin at the center of a salad hosting fat cubes of fresh watermelon—in February, no less!—while making room for Thai chiles, bitter-herbal watercress vines, and a left-field carpet of baba ghanoush singing ecstatic sesame notes and as light as whipped cream. It’s all a heady surprise, supremely refreshing, and unlike anything you’ve eaten.</p> <p>At Smallwares and Aviary, two exciting and original food minds are breaking from the flames, dudes, and snouts that hog Portland’s stage. Asia is the jumping-off point, but inauthenticity rules—backed by real technique. Seasonality is acknowledged but not worshipped. Both still have bumps: not every experiment works. But they are bound by a disciplined, New York-expat spirit, cross-cultural cooking, and a refreshingly girlie energy.</p> <p> </p> <div class="inline-image-right inline-image mceNonEditable" data-image-id="5859" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-right"> </div> <p>Neither place makes ordering easy. Categories are nowhere to be found, and assembling a meal from à la carte esoterica is largely up to your imagination. Risk-averse eaters need not even try. The wise diner comes with a group and settles in to share dishes and join the spirit of discovery.</p> <p>Smallwares launched in February, oozing creative independence. Owner Johanna Ware, 31, offers not so much a menu as a rethinking of the four food groups: edgy raw seafood, brave new vegetables, remodeled Asian classics, and offbeat meats. Her playbook includes taste fixations gleaned from David Chang’s Momofuku Noodle Bar; New York’s Michelin-starred, globe-hopping Public; and Portland’s farm-loving Nostrana. Nothing tastes as it seems. Jump on in.</p> <p>Oysters on the half shell arrive with a Thai fever. A crazy wave of brine, fish sauce, cilantro, and lime spills from each shell. For a night of nibbling, ear-warming invigoration, this is the starting point. Pristine spot prawns surf their own sea of fiery chiles, pickled onion lust, and lush, green-gold Sicilian olive oil. It tastes like luxury and fury. Grab two orders.</p> <p>What the kitchen calls <em>mapo dofu</em> is more accurately a masterful reinvention of the Sichuan classic. Instead of firecracking hunks of pockmarked tofu, Ware mimics the bean curd’s silken interior in an elegant egg custard beneath a bright field of angular scallions. But prickly whooshes of Sichuan peppercorns leave no doubt: China is calling the shots.</p> <p>Even homely stalks of Italian rapini hold surprise. Ware serves the slim, broccoli-like trees, firm but tender, in a broth of sweet miso paste, adding toasty pine nuts and pickled golden raisins. In ways that seem incomprehensible, the results are fruity, crunchy, nutty, earthy, and positively irresistible, like peanut butter and jelly from beyond. A companion summed it up neatly: “I want to drink this stuff.”</p> <p> </p> <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-image-id="5860" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> </div> <p>For all her crafty exuberance, Ware seems to have chile on speed dial. The problem hits home with an oxtail curry numbing enough to humiliate Novocain. As she rallies more converts, Ware should remember: spices sing best in harmony.</p> <h3> </h3> <p>{page break}</p> <p> </p> <div class="inline-image-block inline-image mceNonEditable" data-image-id="5863" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-block"> </div> <div class="text-box-right" style="font-size: 1em; margin-bottom: 40px;"> <p class="boldcaps" style="font-size: 1em;"><a style="font-size: 1em;" title="Aviary Listing" href="/restaurants/aviary" target="_self">AVIARY</a></p> <address style="font-size: 1em;"><strong>1733 NE Alberta St</strong><br style="font-size: 1em;" /><strong>503-287-2400</strong></address> <p class="boldcaps" style="font-size: 1em;">EAT THIS NOW</p> <ul style="font-size: 1em;"> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Fried chicken-skin salad</li> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Tempura green beans</li> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Four-cup chicken</li> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Hoisin-glazed short rib</li> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Brix Layer cocktail </li> </ul> </div> <p>Unlike the quick burn at Smallwares, Aviary’s mysteries unfold slowly on a seemingly random list of dishes, each its own constellation of cuisines and juxtapositions. France winks at Chinatown. Japan dances with India. Think of an iPod shuffling from Ravel to M.I.A.</p> <p> </p> <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-image-id="5861" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> </div> <p>The restaurant opened as one of 2011’s brightest stars; then a fire shuttered it for months. Recently, the kitchen rebooted with expanded ambitions and a new wave of cocktails as surprising as the food. Through it all, this spare room has perplexed and impressed. On any night, it’s possible to encounter the weird, the forgettable, and the transcendent.</p> <p>This much is clear: chef Sarah Pliner, 40, is on the rise. Her journey through the New York kitchens of French master Alain Ducasse (Essex House) and Indian modernist Floyd Cardoz (Tabla) has yielded techniques and spice knowledge beyond Portland’s typical home-schooled kitchen. What’s missing is the “come eat my damn food” confidence of Le Pigeon or the personalized dinner-party focus of Beast. And better lighting wouldn’t hurt.</p> <p>The art and originality—the most difficult ingredients of all—are already here. Four-cup chicken, a riff on a Taiwanese dish, sums up Pliner’s potential. Elegant coils of chicken—poached, seared, and clutching inspired bits of dried apricots and scallions—stand upright in an iconic Chinese broth sharpened by tomato water. The real brilliance is found bobbing around the edges: opium-caliber blobs of creamed taro root intoxicated by truffle perfumes. You don’t so much eat it as inhale it.</p> <p>I’d return to Aviary just for this trio of dishes: tempura green beans, piled in a crosshatch over green curry transformed by coconut milk, honey, lime, and fresh tahini; cured salmon glistening between black caviar beads and butter-whipped fennel; and spicy duck legs with a dark swamp of richness, a poached egg, and buttery brioche croutons that seem straight from a Paris bistro.</p> <p>Aviary and Smallwares expose the conventions creeping into Portland’s heralded un-conventionality. One hits the gut with playful addictions; the other teases the mind and makes your tongue smile. Their double dares come with delicacy and restraint, from food to mood. Rule-breaking food meets brains and beauty, at last.</p> <p> </p> <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-image-id="5862" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> </div> Fri, 22 Jun 2012 08:00:00 -0700 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/smallwares-aviary-review-july-2012 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/smallwares-aviary-review-july-2012 Decadence Returns <div class="inline-image-block inline-image mceNonEditable" data-image-id="5581" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-block"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/7/image/5581/noisette-seared-rare-duck-dish.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F7%2Fimage%2F5581%2Fnoisette-seared-rare-duck-dish.jpg&cropify=515x600%2B0%2B0&resize=515x%3E" alt="noisette 3" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 515px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> <p>Noisette’s artistic signature: seared rare duck with potato purée, spätzle, and cabbage</p> </div> </div> </div> <div class="text-box-right" style="font-size: 1em;"> <p class="boldcaps" style="font-size: 1em;"><a style="font-size: 1em;" title="Noisette Listing" href="/restaurants/noisette" target="_self">NOISETTE</a></p> <address style="font-size: 1em;"><strong>1937 NW 23rd Pl</strong><br style="font-size: 1em;" /><strong>503-719-4599</strong></address> <p class="boldcaps" style="font-size: 1em;">EAT THIS NOW</p> <ul style="font-size: 1em;"> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Smoked trout mousse</li> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Scallops with celery-root sauce</li> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Duck breast with rutabaga- date gratin</li> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Grand Marnier soufflé</li> <li style="font-size: 1em;">Malted barley ice cream</li> </ul> </div> <p><strong>AT <span class="caps"><span class="caps">THE</span></span> <span class="caps"><span class="caps">INTERSECTION</span></span></strong> of NW 23rd Place and Vaughn Street, cars zip on and off the Fremont Bridge, past a Jack in the Box and a sign advertising “Food and Cigs Express,” the growl of their engines fusing into a punishing, incessant soundtrack. But five nights a week, in an elevated house on the corner, the mood swings and Tony Bennett rules the world. Mirrored chandeliers shoot bling across a room, and votives flicker all night long, casting soft shadows off dark khaki walls for the kind of light that wipes 10 years off your face. Tiny tables sport pressed white linen, Limoges porcelain plates, and boxy chrome chairs with marshmallow cushions. At the three-seat bar, the city’s most intimate corner, a white-aproned gentleman vigorously shakes the perfect martini. The warm charisma simply oozes at Noisette. In short: chef Tony Demes is back.</p> <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":5582,"width":600,"height":533,"top":"0","left":"0","scale_width":"200"}" data-image-id="5582" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/7/image/5582/noisette-restaurant-truffles-risotto-dish.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F7%2Fimage%2F5582%2Fnoisette-restaurant-truffles-risotto-dish.jpg&cropify=600x533%2B0%2B0&resize=200x%3E" alt="noisette2" /> </a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 200px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> <p>A dome reveals Oregon truffles crowning risotto with a celery-root purée</p> </div> </div> </div> <p>When we last met Demes, he was cooking his heart out at Couvron in Southwest Portland, with eight-course tasting menus and vertical towers of food layered like Frank Lloyd Wright’s harmonious walls. From 1995 to 2003, Couvron stood as the city’s premier special-occasion destination, the kitchen’s $75-a-head baroque food parade as expensive and ambitious as Portland dared. By the time Demes bolted for bigger pastures, he had more awards than Patton: perfect Zagat scores, four diamonds from <span class="caps"><span class="caps">AAA</span></span>, <em>Wine Spectator</em> awards of excellence. </p> <p>Now, after cooking tours in New York, Michigan, and, most recently, Washington state (at the Herbfarm, the famed hyperseasonal temple outside of Seattle) Demes is gambling on luxury once again in casual Portland. At 46, he returns to a profoundly changed food scene, deeply entrenched in a <span class="caps"><span class="caps">DIY</span></span> ethos and the object of a national media crush. But Demes has sized up Portland’s dining scene like a seasoned stock analyst, with a flexible drop-by or stay-for-the-night menu crafted for an older, dressed-up crowd hungry for an alternative to the east side’s relentless industrial hipness.</p> <p>At Noisette, each dish is a meticulous landscape of geometric shapes, Jackson Pollock sauce squiggles, and culinary pedestals presented on ever-shifting plates of outsize scale. A la carte options may beckon the casual diner, but half the room has clearly come to experience the eight-course tasting menu.</p> <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-image-id="5583" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/7/image/5583/noisette-restaurant-nano-bar.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F7%2Fimage%2F5583%2Fnoisette-restaurant-nano-bar.jpg&cropify=485x600%2B0%2B0&resize=200x%3E" alt="noisette 1" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 200px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> <p>Noisette’s three-seat nano-bar</p> </div> </div> </div> <p>This three-hour extravaganza shifts into gear with a soft sculpture of raw tuna “tartare,” sprouting variations on a radish theme, and ends with a long-forgotten object of desire: a made-to-order soufflé, billowing, ethereal, golden-crusted, and inhalable within seconds. But the experience crystallizes four courses in, when Demes himself, complete with white jacket, rushes to your table to present the dome-covered pièce de résistance of scallops, risotto, black and white truffles, and celery-root sauce. In a wonderful twist, this is Portland’s most out-of-the-box restaurant experience: contemporary French cuisine with a pinch of old-school grand theater. When was the last time you saw a dome?</p> <p>The tasting menu may be a generous deal (notably, at an inflation-unadjusted ’90s price of $75) and a wicked indulgence on a school night, but it’s also richer than Mitt Romney. Courses can blur over time, and the plate-long potato purée schmears and veal-stock-intensive sauce splashes first welcomed as friends begin to feel like stalkers seven courses in. I suspect Demes will stretch his repertoire as more bountiful seasons roll in. Right now, your dream dinner at Noisette consists of three or four courses plucked from the daily list, divided into “cold” and “hot” categories ($8–18), with specific ingredients shifting nightly.</p> <p>Course one: start with a smoked rainbow trout mousse notched up by plate doodles of sweet sunchoke purée and tangy creamed chives. It’s party food with a high IQ. Or snag the organic butternut squash soup, a bowl of pure velvet smoldering with alder-smoked salt. If soup can be poetry, this is it.</p> <blockquote> <p>The tasting menu may be a generous deal and a wicked indulgence, but it’s also richer than Mitt Romney.</p> </blockquote> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p> </p> <p>Course two: diver scallops surfing a sea of tender spätzle, rosy bacon lardons, expertly braised endive, and a celery-root sauce of heady elegance. Or try Noisette’s unmitigated triumph: a fan of seared rare duck, haloed with plump fat (like slices of bacon from heaven), carefully arranged on a flat oval plane. To this, Demes adds abstract brushings of glossy red wine sauce, a teeny mound of rutabaga and date gratin, a big pinch of toasted grains, and, holding the perimeter, little rips of peppery cabbage for crunch and bite. (The tasting menu version adds a drop-your-fork cloud of transcendence: a lobe of exquisitely seared foie gras.)</p> <div class="inline-image-right inline-image mceNonEditable" data-crop="{"id":5584,"width":569,"height":600,"top":"0","left":"0","scale_width":"200"}" data-image-id="5584" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-right"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/7/image/5584/noisette-wine-beakers.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F7%2Fimage%2F5584%2Fnoisette-wine-beakers.jpg&cropify=569x600%2B0%2B0&resize=200x%3E" alt="noisette 4" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 200px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> <p>Wine beakers await their close-up.</p> </div> </div> </div> <p>For dessert: of the three house soufflés, you want the Grand Marnier, a weightless joy of fluff in a golden crust; pierce the top to pour in a shot of custardy, liquor-spiked sauce, served on the side. Demes’s little-known talent as a dessert mastermind is also on full display in a dish of salted barley malt ice cream built like a Richard Serra installation, nestled inside a floating band of crispy, glassy candy. It’s fantastic.</p> <p>The user-friendly wine speaks for the house philosophy, reaching high but accessible to everyone. Prices are more moderate than such ambitious dining typically demands. Flavor profiles reach across the aisle to casual drinkers (the big, oaky, fruity California camp) and more serious wine geeks (the food-loving, high-acid, low-alcohol French school).</p> <div class="inline-image-left inline-image mceNonEditable" data-image-id="5585" data-include-caption="true" data-layout="inline-image-left"> <div align="center"><a class="lightbox" href="/data/images/2012/7/image/5585/souffles-noisette-restaurant.jpg"> <img src="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/images/change?src=%2Fdata%2Fimages%2F2012%2F7%2Fimage%2F5585%2Fsouffles-noisette-restaurant.jpg&cropify=600x450%2B0%2B0&resize=200x%3E" alt="noisette5" /></a> <div class="inline-image-caption mceNonEditable" style="width: 200px;"> <div>Image: <a class="attribution-link" href="/producers/stuart-mullenberg">Stuart Mullenberg</a></div> <p>Oven-fresh soufflés rise again at Noisette, inhalable within seconds.</p> </div> </div> </div> <p>Some diners might find the portions too modest. One friend fired off a postmeal e-mail, noting: “great food, spent $40, came home and made scrambled eggs.” For me, given the intensity of flavors, the sizes work just fine.</p> <p>For all its class and efforts to restore West Hills–style dining glory, Noisette is a bit short on polish. The vibe is neighborhood and family-run: sommelier Jeremey Campbell is a former Couvron busboy. A question on one evening’s visit caused an endearingly flustered server to implore the skies for mercy. “I’m still learning so many things! All I can tell you is my dad did everything here. He even picked the plates. He’s a great artist.”</p> <p>Who wouldn’t agree, let alone root for Noisette? In a world where cocktails are sipped from roasted marrow bones and even hot chocolate gets spiked with foie gras, Noisette’s return to classical decadence and technical triumph borders on the radical.</p> <p> </p> <hr /> <p style="text-align: center;"> <br /><a href="http://portlandmonthlymag.com/restaurants/noisette" target="_blank"><strong><span class="caps"><span class="caps">NOISETTE</span></span></strong></a> | 1937 NW 23rd Pl | 503-719-4599 | <a href="http://noisetterestaurant.com/">noisetterestaurant.com</a></p> <hr /> Fri, 23 Mar 2012 09:00:00 -0700 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/noisette-restaurant-review-april-2012 http://www.portlandmonthlymag.com/articles/noisette-restaurant-review-april-2012