Regrets, I've had a few . . .

. . . but then again, too few to mention.

It is, alas, time to say goodbye to Portland, capital of all things weird, sustainable, progressive, and delicious. The last few days have been gloriously sunny, with the mountains shining in the background and the leaves tossing gently in the breeze. We have done our best to acclimate to the Portland way of doing things, biking and walking nearly everywhere, composting and recycling nearly everything, and eating nothing that has been on a truck (unless food carts count as trucks). The last few days of most trips turn into a frenzy of trying to hit the last "must try" spots on my list and returning to my favorites one last time. This trip, however, it has seemed far more important to see people one last time, and that, I think, is the sign of a good trip.

There are some food odds and ends about this trip that didn't quite fit into any of the previous posts, but deserve mention, so I'm going to be lazy and write some bullets:

* Tasty and Sons. Portland is mad for this restaurant, which is the sister of the also very popular tapas place Toro Bravo. Ever since we hit town, every foodie we have talked to has put Tasty and Sons on the top of the list. They specialize in brunch, so a few Sundays ago, we dutifully trundled ourselves off to N. Williams St. to be greeted by a two hour wait. I get it: it was Sunday, Father's Day even, at eleven o'clock at the hottest and newest brunch place in town. But two hours? We called our dads while waiting, even managed to find a nearby farmer's market to peruse, and around 1:30, finally got our table. The concept of Tasty and Sons is small plate brunch, with everything meant to share. We ordered the sweet biscuits with strawberries (excellent), spinach with a soft egg (very competent), a nepalese pork stew (excellent), a red pepper and sausage stew (very good), and some chocolate donuts (surprisingly dense and disappointing). Everything was good, and it was nice to have so many non-traditional options for brunch. Everything but the biscuits and the donuts had a soft yolk egg on top which, when broken and stirred in, rounded out the sauces and made everything that much richer and saucier. That's definitely a trick that will be making its way into my repertoire. But, overall, I'm not sure I'm quite the devotee that so many Portlanders are. The plates were very small -- only a few forkfuls each (although there were three of us) -- and I left feeling barely satisfied and slightly sticker-shocked. I certainly don't mind spending some cash on good food, but the price seemed discordant with the extreme casualness of the space and the service. Chalk one up to excessive expectations.

*Pine State Biscuits. Our second day in Portland, we biked to Alberta St., which is the new Hawthorne, and mighty cool it is, considering the last time I lived in Portland no safety-conscious white girl would dream of going north of Failing. Cool clothing stores, a music store with an enormous selection of new and used acoustic guitars (so says Jeremy), and the nicheiest food establishments I have ever seen. Mac n Cheese To Go, which sells just that and only that. The Burger Bus, with a similarly predictable one item menu. And Pine State Biscuits, doing a screaming, line out the door and down the block kind of business. I was intrigued, but not at that time hungry. Then we started seeing Pine State booths at the big Farmer's Market, again with multiple block length lines. Really? For biscuits? I became frantic to try; Jeremy maintained his skepticism. "I just don't get the biscuit thing. Is there meat on them?" Finally, last weekend, I demanded we go. We joined the queue at the Alberta location (the line moved pretty briskly, as it turned out). I ordered the Reggie deluxe, an amazing biscuit sandwich with fried chicken, cheese, sausage gravy, bacon and an egg. My heart stopped a little just typing that. My god. Big biscuits, but wonderfully light without being even a little spongy, with the crispy, lightly salty crust that comes from being brushed with butter, and big, warm flakes inside. Moist boneless chicken breast with a still crispy skin. Creamy, spicy gravy, and that ubiquitous soft egg, as if it needed to be more rich and gooey. Now that was a breakfast of champions. That I would have gladly paid twice the eight dollar price to enjoy. Not necessarily pretty, but unbelievably satisfying, and while decadent, its single biscuit size keeps it from being too, too much. Jeremy's pulled pork biscuit, with pork from Pudnah's pit, was good, but really could not compare. Now I get the whole biscuit thing. We really, really, really need one of these in Spokane.

Bunk Bar, late night coz to Bunk Sandwiches. We went there after one of Jeremy's jewelry classes. The space was cool, the music was quite good, and the vibe was pure Portland hipster. I swear, in Portland, good looking women put on cowboy boots and oversized glasses so they won't look too good. The Portland chick chic is part part lesbian, part motorcycle gang, and part Lisa Loeb, and while some -- a very few -- manage to look cool and counter, most women just look like they are going out of their way to ugly themselves up. Men just wear plaid, and seem to shave their heads more than in other cities. Anyway, Bunk Sandwiches, much like Tasty and Sons, was high on my list of places to try. The word in the blogosphere was they were an instant classic, that they elevated the sandwich to its highest form, and that their cubano would make you forget all others. I had a meatball parm that was, while not sublime, perhaps the Platonic ideal of the form. The meat was juicy and moist, the balls had structural integrity without being dense or rubbery, the sauce was plentiful but neither messy nor overpowering, and the cheese asserted its presence in every bite while still playing nice with the other components. Jeremy had the cubano, and I have to say, again, I don't get the buzz. It was fine. A little overly mustardy, a little strong on the vinegar. The meat was promised to be pork belly, but I couldn't have told it apart from loin in a line-up. What's the big deal, Portland? Are they better during the day? And, dear lord, cut back on the salt on the fries. I know it encourages beer sales, but salt should not burn my mouth. Still, the experience got me thinking about how good a sandwich shop could be, and how many truly great sandwiches there are in the world. If you could put ten sandwiches on a menu, what would they be? Reuben, Meatball Parm, Banh Mi . . . what else?

*Olympic Provision's Cacciatore salami is the best salami anywhere. Done.

*I would like to take a bath in Chop's Chicken Liver Bourbon Mousse. Their Venison Pate isn't bad either.

* Two Tarts little cookie sandwiches are amazing. I thought nothing could be better than the li'l mamas (chocolate cookies with vanilla buttercream) until I had the cappuccino cookies with cinnamon butter cream.

As for those regrets? I regret that we made it to neither of the raved about pizza establishments, Ken's Artisanal Pizza and Apizza Scholls. I regret that I was unable to convince the proprietor of the People's Pig to relocate to Spokane, or to let me open a franchise. I regret that morel season is over. I regret we didn't make it back to Pok Pok, although we did make it to Ping, where we put away three steamed pork buns. But mostly, I'm just looking forward to being home, and the gloriousness that is summer in Spokane with my friends. I've missed you guys!

Cured pork and Cocktails

I didn't think it could happen. Not to me. Maybe to other people, people with lesser stomachs and a poorly defined palate. Or to health nuts who weren't used to, you know, food. But not to me, not with my voracious appetite, my love of all kinds of food, my desire to eat the best possible food all the time. Surely I simply could not get tired of eating good, interesting, carefully prepared, rich food. And yet, here in Portland, even I hit a wall on Thursday. Not another charcuterie plate, cried my palate. Please, let's not split a number of fascinating smaller plates composed of surprising juxtapositions and unusual ingredients. I want someone to put a plate of simple food in front of me and let me eat it in peace. Or, even better, I want to cook a meal of something simple and good, and just eat that.

Of course, getting to this point has been a wonderful journey, and I'll do my best to recreate it step by wonderful step. We've been to a number -- a large number -- of really good places and eaten really good meals, not to mention gotten back in touch with friends we haven't seen in ages. Turns out the road to satiety is paved with cured pork and cocktails.

After our missed first step with Blue Hour, Jeremy and I journeyed out to Bar Mingo, the newer and more casual sibling of Caffe Mingo on NW 23rd. It's Italian, and most of the plates are small and shareable. They pride themselves on their homemade pasta, and it is a testimony to the greatness of the meal that the house made ravioli, delicious as it was, was the baseline of the meal, the stand up bass against which the rest of the dishes played and sang. We started with a brilliant braised squid bruschetta, cooked with red wine and butter. There was a grilled shrimp wrapped in pancetta on a citrus salad that, unlike most dishes, became more interesting the more one ate of it. The ravioli -- which I don't mean to damn with faint praise -- was creamy, herby, and with just the right amount of chewiness in the pasta. And finally, there were the lamb meatballs with mint and rosemary, meatballs so delicate that they seemed to transform into the essence of lamb in your mouth, meatballs so  light you wondered how they maintained ball shape through the cooking process. Man, those were good meatballs.

We went to our beloved Clyde Commons for a light, late meal, and they continue to be consistent and not to disappoint. I had a lovely ravioli stuffed with farmer's cheese and greens, served in a brown butter sauce and a delightful bowl of fresh, local vegetables lightly sauteed and dressed with just the right hint of acid. Jeremy had a lamb shank. There has been so much good food since then that neither one of us can remember anything about that lamb beyond "it was good," and "it made me slightly regret my ravioli." I returned to Clyde Commons a few days latter for their happy hour with my grad student, Kari, who was in town from Davis for her birthday. I had a fantastic bourbon drink, "bourbon renewal," and we split their small, happy hour charcuterie board -- just some salami, a boiled egg, some cornishons. Still, not a bad deal for five bucks. I like that place a lot.

Last Friday, we went to the rave reviewed Laurelhurst Market with Jeremy's first roommate in San Francisco, Tracy, who moved to Portland two years ago. The bartender there, a brilliant man named Evan, is a high school friend of hers, and made me a classic drink called an "airmail." It's a rum drink, and I never order rum drinks, but I am so very happy I put myself in Evan's hands. Rum, citrus, champagne, light, refreshing, yum. I have to say dinner, while good, was not spectacular. We had good torchon of foie gras, wholly underflavored steak tartare, and great french fries to start. I had a delicately refined salmon dish which kept the salmon the star (and did not over cook it). Tracy had harissa coated short ribs that were the hit of the table. Jeremy had pork ribs that were just okay -- a little dry -- but that came with a house-made hot link sausage that was redemptive. In Spokane, it would have been a great meal. Here, nothing special.

On Monday, we met up with my old friend Amy from my PSU days. She was always brilliantly sharp and funny, and we have had strangely parallel lives: our houses are the same style and era, our lives until recently revolved around ancient and beloved cats, and we both knit. And, we both love food, so we went to Gruner (as you can see, there is supposed to be an umlaut in there), which describes itself as serving "alpine cuisine." A good charcuterie board there, an endive and apple salad I found mostly tasteless, and then some spectacular entries. I had the lamb, which came with perfectly cooked chops and the most complex, house-made lamb sausage I have ever tasted. Jeremy had a duck schnitzel with, of all things, a rhubarb sauce (don't tell him -- I don't think he knew what the fruit was), and Amy had chicken and morel spaetzle (is there another missing umlaut? I'm not sure). She and I had opposite reactions to the spaetzle: she liked it more and more as she ate it. By my third taste (she nicely traded for some sausage), I was getting buttered out.

On Wednesday, we went to Ned Ludd with my longest running continuous friend, Christopher, and his boyfriend Rob. By this time, Jeremy's college roommate James had joined us (he and Jeremy are working on a computer project together). Of course, first we needed to stop by a local bar and have some cocktails. We ended up at Tear Drop, where the decor is an uncomfortable melange of down-homey wine bar, modern apothocary, and a little zen rock garden thrown in. But, the drinks were fine, especially my airmail (although not as good as Evan's) and Christopher's Tanqueray and tonic with housemade tonic. Then, on to the restaurant. The schtick at Ned Ludd, and I'm not sure how much of a shtick it is, is that they cook everything that is cooked on their wood stove. Great were the charcuterie plate (pictured at the top of this post), especially the porchetta and the rabbit liver pate, the shaved asparagus salad, and roasted new potatoes with basil aioli. Good was the pork belly and beans -- they managed to get a terrificly crispy crust on it without drying out the tender meat -- but I don't know how anyone could have eaten more than two bites without exploding. Also good was the porchetta, arugula and lentil salad, although the lentils added nothing to the plate. Problematic, at least for some of us, was the rabbit loin. The breading was on the soggy side, the salad was overdressed by far, and the rabbit had considerable chew -- maybe some untrimmed silver skin on the loin? And, I don't know. Rabbit. Fuzzy hopping bunnies. Since they still taste like weird chickens to me, do we really have to ruin their lives by turning them into food animals?

And that is how it happened. Faced with the question what to do for dinner with Tracy and James on Friday, I announced I wanted to eat in. And I made a meal with absolutely no pork at all. Really, I don't know what the world is coming too for me. But, I haven't even looked at a charcuterie board in four days, so hopefully I am on the mend.