Many of us who grew up in Portland have a story about Le Bistro Montage. It's a place much like the Roxy, the Pied Cow or the Rimsky-Korsakoffee House. At one time, at least, these places were refuges for a certain brand of teenager, usually the sort that takes drama classes and/or makes the mistake of getting started on the Velvet Underground and vintage clothing too early in life. They wind up there after curfew on a night out at the movies or a Laser Light Show at OMSI. The Montage is open until 4 AM on Saturdays and Sundays, it's kitschy, it's weird, it has an element of mystery about it and its ratty, burgundy exterior can be found beneath the Morisson Bridge. Oh, and its former owner, Jon Beckel, died under mysterious circumstances on a night just like this one after watching his girlfriend's band perform downtown.

I don't know if trips to the Montage are still a right-of-passage for local teens but I remember going down there late one night after getting my license. I probably had a group of fellow drama nerds with me and we were probably riding around in my hand-me-down, bumpersticker-covered Toyota van. This would have been the mid-90s, back before MacForce and the Esplanade, when the area had even fewer oases amidst all the warehouses.

We probably roamed the streets along the waterfront for a while, past forgotten shopping carts and slouching train tracks. One of us would have been fretting about how we were all going to be attacked by vampires at any second. That person was no doubt me and the following scenario was probably playing out in my adolescent mind:

ME: (hours later, covered in blood) "I don't know, officer. One minute we were looking for the Montage and the next the doors were getting torn off the van. They came out of nowhere!"

FATHER OF ONE OF THE KIDS WHO HAD BEEN RIDING IN THE BACKSEAT: "Why couldn't you have just driven to Banning's Pie House?!! Where's my daughter?!!"

COP: "We see this sort of thing all the time, sir. A group of kids goes looking for the Montage and they get attacked by vampires. You'll never see her again. By now she's an undead concubine in allegiance with the forces of darkness. If she does show up on your doorstep, don't give her any money. Oh, and you'll probably want to chop off her head and take out of her heart. If you have any further questions, head on down to Hollywood Video and rent Bram Stoker's Dracula."

FATHER: "Curse that foul Montage! If only my girl had gotten pregnant or addicted to heroin instead of going off in search of alligator jambalaya!"

Yup, they serve alligator jambalaya down there. From the outside, the Montage hasn't changed much in the last 14 years. It still looks like a tavern a Tom Waits' character would hang around in on Tuesday mornings in January, chain-smoking and gloomily drinking whiskey until he could work up enough motivation to drive his fist through something.

The inside is more of a cheeky, hipster paradise- a Spaghetti Factory for artsy-fartsy teenagers and their older counterparts who are faced with the task of making Portland seem appropriately weird for out-of-town guests. The Montage is gimmicky, customer's leftovers are wrapped up in tinfoil art displays, the tables are communal and the staff serves wine in drinking glasses, just like they do in Europe! The menu consists of seafood, Cajun options and something like a dozen different types of macaroni and cheese.

I wrote about the Montage way back in 2004 and John Beckel's niece wrote me an email that explained all the artwork in the restaurant and the secret imagery it contained. Sadly, it was lost to the ether in an old Hotmail account a long time ago.

I still get down there about once or twice a year. I stopped in during a free afternoon a few weeks ago. During daylight hours, the Montage is much more low-key and their lunch menu is pretty solid. I went with the gumbo.

Labels: restaurants

Cooking can be a drag, especially when you live in an ancient house without a dishwasher like myself. When my freezer is empty of leftovers or TV dinners to toss in the microwave, I often find myself at the Village Hut in Multnomah Village. The place has an odd layout. The hut itself has a bar with enough seating room for a handful of patrons. Out back, there's a grill with a few tables and a second hut with a large dining table.

I'm a big fan of the goat stew, which often pops up on the specials menu. It's typically served with a side of tasty slaw that has a bit of a spicy kick. The owner says the cooking process for the dish can take over 15 hours.

He's always friendly and somehow manages to hold down a conversation while juggling his duties as a chef, a host, a busboy, a server and a cashier. The last time I was in there, he related an anecdote about an ongoing series of incidents involving a group of teenagers that kept breaking in to raid the hut's beer cooler. They were finally caught last summer.

Also recommended: the pulled pork. It goes great with jasmine rice.

Labels: restaurants

Most places, if they put anything up on the walls, go with a pastoral print or a few photos. This poster can be found in the restroom at the Opposable Thumb Gallery and Cafe.

I guess this is one way to discourage vandalism.

Labels: restaurants

If you head east down NE Alberta you will find a silver trailer next to a school bus and a series of picnic tables. Inside this trailer there is a cheeseburger. A cheeseburger worthy of both admiration and fear.

They call it "The Cheesus Burger" but it does not like you. It will not tell you to love your neighbor. It will not turn your water into wine. It will not look good on a candle or in a nativity scene. Nor is it willing to die for your sins. In fact, I strongly suspect that this cheeseburger is far more interested in clogging your arteries, whittling months off our your expected lifespan and possibly making you rip a hole in your bicycle shorts after the spandex struggles and fails to hold back a cascading wave of quickly expanding Cheesus-fueled butt flab.

And you can have a Cheesus Burger to call your own for the low, low price of $8. Get 'em while they're hot at the Grilled Cheese Grill.

I gave one of these burgers a shot and only managed to consume the first half. I'll admit, I'm a lightweight. Still, ladies and gentleman, this is a Serious Burger. Oh, sure, the Voodoo Doughnut burger at The Original looks intimidating but it's nothing in comparison to The Cheesus. Here's a description from the grill's menu:

"The Soon-to-be-Famous Burger Behemoth. We’ve done away with the bun and replaced it with two grilled cheese sandwiches. That’s right, two of them. One on top, one on the bottom. Pickles and American cheese inside one, Grilled Onion and Colby Jack in the other. Lettuce, Tomato, Ketchup, Mustard, and 1/3lb Burger in between. You won’t need to eat again for 2 days. Comes with a bag of chips and a case of napkins."

I made the mistake of asking for a doggy bag after I had to tap out. I stupidly left the uneaten half in my car so I could meet up with a few friends at a bar down the street. When I got back, I swear I could hear the thing growling at me from the glove box.

Did I eat it? Dear God, no! What, do you think I'm crazy? I donated it to the Oregon Humane Society instead. I hope my unwanted Cheesus burger finds a loving home sometime soon.

The Grilled Cheese Grill has plenty of far more reasonable items on its menu and I recommend a sandwich called "The Pops" (Tomato, Havarti and Honey Mustard on Dave’s Killer Cracked Wheat). The grill is one of the weirder dinning establishments in Portland. It's not quite a food cart and it's not quite a restaurant. The grill opened in the spring and the school bus' indoor seating should keep things busy through the cold season.

The bus reminds me of the renovated trolley inside the Old Spaghetti Factory. The seats have been moved around to incorporate tables. An elaborate, psychedelic mural covers the ceiling. August's "Photo of the Month" (see above) features a mermaid and her Lucha Libre suitor from the mural. Unfortunately, her grilled cheese sandwich top had to be cropped out. Click here for an unedited view.

Oh, and the tables? They're decorated with old school portraits. That kid in the red? I'm pretty sure I went to high school with him. Sean Miller, if you're out there, is that a photo of you from middle school?

Definitely give the place a shot if you're ever in the area. They're open late on Fridays and Saturdays until 2:30 AM.

Labels: restaurants, weird

The Voodoo Doughnut Burger at The Original, the newish "dinerant" downtown, earned itself a recent blog post on the New York Times website. Having never eaten a beef patty wedged between two glazed pastries, I headed down there for one last week.

And you know what? The Voodoo Doughnut Burger is actually pretty darn tasty. It's a burger greasy enough to warrant eating with a fork and knife and it will probably take a good three days off your life. Meat. Cheese. Doughnuts. That's it. The Original's kitchen staff aren't about to let a few slices of lettuce or a tomato sneak in and detract from the oodles of cholesterol packed in this little monster. I recommend ordering one medium rare.

The PB & J Monte Cristo sandwich doesn't hold up as well. A colleague ordered one and said that it tasted more or less like a jelly doughnut without enough jelly. It was too much like a dessert item and not enough like a lunch entree, especially considering the price.

But the Voodoo Doughnut Burger? It walks that line with ease. In fact, I think it's a burger worthy its own sonnet. Quick, somebody get this burger a sonnet!

Labels: restaurants

Check out what's currently on the menu at Le Pigeon on East Burnside:

Eat your heart out, Voodoo Doughnut.

Labels: restaurants, weird

I woke up on Saturday with no idea that I'd be spending the bulk of the evening in Keizer. I'd never been there before and really had no reason to pay a visit. Then along came two colleagues who are absolutely convinced that the city offers some of the best Mexican food in the state.

The menu at La Hacienda Real is huge and has to be at least the size of the one you'll find in a Cheesecake Factory. More impressive is the decor. The Keizer location of the three restaurant chain is tucked away in an unassuming strip mall. The inside resembles a cartoon village. Cactus lamps hang from the ceiling and a "tortilla lady" cranks out shells in a kitchen built inside a facade that looks like a guest house.

The portions are huge but the Iron Horse in Milwaukie still gets my vote for "Best Mexican Restaurant in Oregon."

Near the front door we spotted this sign for a local high school's production of The Taming of the Shrew: The Yee Haw Version. None of us had heard of this twist on the Bard's anti-feminist screed. It was closing night and curiosity got the better of us. We'd never get another shot at something like this.

We arrived at McNary High School with time to kill so we wandered the darkened halls. All in all, it seemed fairly normal. Trophy case by the gym, student-made posters about The Great Gatsby outside an English class...

...and then we found the pornographic modern art sculpture made out of bubble wrap up on the second floor.

I broke out my iPhone if only to later prove that the sculpture wasn't the product of group hypnosis. If you think you can handle a few blurry NSFW cell phone photos, click here and here. I can only assume it was an art student's senior prank.

Kids these days...

We made it through the entirety of Shrew's nearly three hour running time. The girl who played Kate was great and the cast spent a good portion of the play running around with prop guns. Kate had a real whip and swung it over the heads of the audience and her cast mates. I was once a teenage drama geek in the PPS district and I was never once allowed to wield an actual weapon on stage (dammit). I guess they just do things differently in high schools further down the I-5 corridor.

Labels: restaurants, theater

The main thing that sets Five Guys Burgers and Fries apart from its competitors is simple: they encourage their customers to choose what goes on top of their patty. As someone who has picked pickles off fast food burgers since preschool, I consider this a stroke of genius. Sure, you can request to have it "your way" at Burger King but it's always a hassle and you're guaranteed no less than two eye rolls from the cashier.

The Five Guys in Beaverton, the first of two locations of the popular Virginia-based franchise to set up shop in the metro area, has a menu over the front counter with several toppings to pick from. Supposedly, there's no less than 250,000 different ways to order a Five Guys burger. When I stopped in for lunch a while back there was a line nearly out the door. A small army of teenagers frantically cranked out orders as quickly as possible to keep up with the throngs of suburbanites piling into the place.

East Coast colleagues have told me that Five Guys' burgers are the best that can be found in a stateside fast food joint. The line led past a row of rave reviews from publications around the country, trumpeting Five Guys' insistence on only using Idaho potatoes in their fries and never freezing their beef patties. A reader board informed me that this particular day's potatoes had come from a town I forgot to commit to memory. There was also a barrel filled with complimentary peanuts and, yeah, Five Guys is one of those places where you can toss the shells on the floor. Or at least that's what everyone was doing while I was there.

After a long wait, one of the teens behind the counter handed me a paper bag filled with greasy goodness. How did my burger and fries stack up against those found at In-N-Out, Burgerville and Dick's Drive-In? The fries were fresh and topped all the others I've gobbled down in other fast food restaurants. The burger was juicy and cooked just right but, ultimately, I don't think it can compete against the ones at In-N-Out in terms of "value." One of the drawbacks of Five Guys is the prices, which are definitely higher than what you'll find at the popular California burger chain.

While what I had was tasty, I think I'll remain a Burgerville devotee, especially now that the chain is considering the addition of beer and wine to its menu. Or at least until In-N-Out starts opening franchises in Portland.

Labels: burgers, restaurants

Here's what the Fat City Cafe in Multnomah Village looked like this afternoon. The place was packed, the staff was frazzled and a fan in the kitchen filled the dining area with smoke because snow kept clogging an air vent on the roof. Meanwhile outside, the surrounding neighborhood looked downright pastoral.

My first job was as a busboy at the cafe in the '90s when it was owned by a former NFL player and his wife. Two things I didn't know about the place until I found its webpage a few minutes ago:

A man shot his would-be lover in the cafe's basement and there's bullet holes in the walls to prove it. From what I remember, it's creepy enough down there as it is.

One of the current co-owners used to sing in a punk band that toured with Black Flag.

I've been going to Fat City since I was a kid and the staff still doesn't raise an eyebrow when someone like me orders a chocolate milkshake to with an omelet. It's that kinda place.

Labels: restaurants, snow

The contents of my stomach after I walked into Salvador Molly's in Hillsdale on Saturday night:

Three glasses of Champagne.

Two bowls of cereal

One microbrew

A handful of tatter-tots

A ball of rice wrapped in grape leaves

More rice

Potato salad

A very large slice of cheesecake wrapped in a mochi-style, green tea outer shell

Ham...yeah, I'm pretty sure there was some ham in there too.

We arrived on the heels of a wedding reception. I wasn't the one that suggested ordering a plate of "Great Balls of Fire" but I would have if someone else hadn't beaten me to it.

[insert junior high-level gag about eating something ball-shaped being "totally gay" here]

The size of golf balls, they seemed so innocent-looking and hush puppy-ish on that plate, next to what looked like a dipping bowl full of marmalade. But within their deep-friend shells lay unholy pain.

I only made it halfway through mine. It wasn't so bad when I first bit into it but the second I started chewing the ball filled with my mouth with fire. We're talking a level of spiciness that caused Homer Simpson to start hallucinating coyotes that talk like Johnny Cash. I began profusely sweating and had to excuse myself to go to the bathroom. Not to puke but to get a look at what these horrible little balls of hell and brimstone has done to my face. It took 20-minutes and lots of water and margarita gulps to make the pain subside.

I engaged in this contest of gastrointestinal stupidity with two others. One admitted that his ball made his hair sweaty but that he had endured worse. A colleague to my left downed my extra half after I refused to finish it. He even vowed to return to Salvador Molly's at a later date to take the 5 ball challenge that would earn him his picture on one of the restaurant's walls. Females included, everyone at the table was impressed with this display of bravery.

Twenty-minutes later he was sitting in my car with a "Whatever Level of Dante's Hell Was Actually Hot" case of the hiccups. Each hiccup reportedly blasted up his esophagus like a nitro-fueled Brillo pad. I didn't try the dipping sauce, thank God, but he had. It wasn't marmalade. Far from it. It was actually super-spicy jalapeno sauce.

He spent the rest of the evening slumped in a recliner in a daze. I had to go home to clutch my stomach for a few hours after adding another three beers to the mix.

Full confession time: the balls burn going down and coming out the other end. Consider this a warning if you ever decide to punish yourself with Salvador Molly's deep-fried sadomasochism. If you aren't gagging yet, I think you'll enjoy this:

When it comes to local culinary challenges, I think I'll stick with my dream to one day conquer this one.

Labels: restaurants, stupidity

Er, uh, I mean rock n' roll. It just can't die. Kind of like Superman, Keith Richards and Bush's belief that history will redeem his administration's innumerable blunders. I guess this same rule now applies to Mark Lindsay's Rock and Roll Cafe. According to the man himself during his back-from-the-dead Saturday night radio show, the restaurant/radio station/etc. will reopen later this summer, possibly in late July. In the meantime, he'll be broadcasting from the KOIN Tower. As of right now, the cafe's website hasn't been updated to reflect this.

Here's hoping they get the formula right this time around.

Labels: nostalgia, restaurants

It's located over on NE MLK and it's housed in a former car dealership that looks more like an old masonic lodge. I wonder if this location has a resident ghost like the one on NW Davis....

Labels: restaurants

Mark Lindsay's Rock & Roll Cafe closed down on Monday. I drove past the place earlier tonight. A middle-aged couple was peeking in through the windows. Meanwhile, someone over at the Hollywood Burger Bar across the street was standing in its doorway, enjoying possibly a celebratory smoke after having watched its chief competitor crumble. While the museum/restaurant/radio station was a cool idea on the conceptual level, numerous problems ranging from bickering among the owners to poor food and service to a downturn in the economy quickly sunk the cafe. In hindsight, I feel pretty bad about being an early naysayer when it first opened last August. A lot of love was poured into the place and it's a shame all involved couldn't get the project to work.

Here's hoping the best thing to come out of the cafe, Lindsay's Saturday night radio show on K-HiTS, will carry on.

In other sad local restaurant news, Peanut Butter and Ellies, a neat family cafe near my parent's house, has closed down as well.

Labels: restaurants

Back in August I made a few disparaging remarks on this blog about Mark Lindsay's Rock and Roll Cafe, a new addition to the Hollywood district. The post was picked up by Jack Bogdanski, resulting in a small debate on his blog. This led to someone presumably affiliated with the restaurant calling me out for my "errors."

I responded and have yet to hear back from Mr and/or Ms. "Anonymous." I vowed to return to the restaurant and give it a proper review. Here it is:

Nostalgia: a wistful desire to return in thought or in fact to a former time in one's life, to one's home or homeland, or to one's family and friends; a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place.

I was too young to ever eat a burger at Yaws. I was born a generation too late to catch the waves of Paul Revere & the Raiders' heyday or meet anyone underneath the downtown Meier and Frank's iconic clock. To enjoy the Rock and Roll Cafe it's necessary to go with at least some nostalgia for these things and places. Otherwise, you'll wander in, turn a blind eye to the artifacts on the walls and start focusing on the lackluster menu, the overpriced cocktails and the poor service.

I took my mother with me last Sunday for dinner at the cafe. She grew up in Portland and was a big enough fan of Paul Revere & the Raiders as a teenager to draw pictures of the band's lead singer in her sketchbook back in the '60s. Her and a crowd consisting almost entirely of people over the age of 50 seemed to love everything about the place. For me, however, it was like walking into a museum filled with things I don't care about that serves spendy fast food.

I ordered a Yaws burger with cheese. By the standards of Yaws, which I'm told was once a beloved fast food joint in NE Portland, it was great. It was juicy and the secret sauce was damn tasty. I'd compare it to the burgers at an In-N-Out franchise down south. Now there's just one problem with this: a cheeseburger and fries runs right around $3.00 at In-N-Out. At the Rock and Roll Cafe they cost upwards of $7.00. Sure, they're served in more opulent surroundings but there's no getting around the fact that the cafe charges too much for way too little.

The chocolate milkshake I ordered was much better. $3.50 bought me more than I could drink and any other burger joint in town will charge you around the same price for a lot less. Unfortunately, it didn't show up at the table until I was halfway through my burger, a common complaint I've seen in other reviews of the cafe. For some reason, the staff just can't get the drinks out before the food. It also took forever to get the check.

In addition to the old Meier and Frank clock, which hangs over the front door, the place is covered in Mark Lindsay memorabilia ranging from shirtless photos to gold records. It's more than a little disconcerting given his involvement with the cafe (the man himself hosts a radio show from a booth attached to main dining room on Saturday nights). The place at least looks like an over-the-hill rocker's free standing tribute to his own inflated ego. Supposedly, the cafe includes tributes to other area rock bands but the only examples I could find were record covers on the ceiling over the bar. There's also an Oregon Music Hall of Fame somewhere on site but I couldn't find it after a short search. We got there around 7 and I figured it was closed for the night.

There's little to bring me back. The meal I had was good but not great and too spendy for what I received. The menu includes more elaborate items like the "Funky Chicken" plate ($15.95) or the "Let's Go Surfin' Now" grilled salmon ($23.95) but if I'm going to spend that kind of money, I'd rather do it in a place that doesn't feel like a reheated Hard Rock Cafe. The Rock and Roll Cafe is the restaurant equivalent of paying $70 to catch an act like The Who in concert. Sure, they still put on a pretty good show but there's no escaping the fact that Pete Townshend can barely pull off a bunny-hop these days and the band's going to insist on playing their new material for at least 1/3 of the set. You just can't go back, ya' know?

But Mark Lindsay's Rock and Roll Cafe wasn't meant for someone like me. I'm hardly in their target demographic. I'm sure if one of the members of Sleater-Kinney ever builds a place like this 25 years from now to wallow in the good ol' days and serve Voodoo Doughnuts alongside Dots-style french fries I'll be drunk enough on nostalgia to overlook the prices and the lousy service.

Labels: nostalgia, Portland, restaurants

A friend living and working in DC sent me an email asking for local restaurant recommendations for two of his coworkers who will be visiting Portland soon. Both are "professionals" in their early thirties. This is what I came up with. If anyone else has any ideas, feel free to submit them via the comments section at the bottom of this post.

HIGH END: Blue Hour (250 NW 13th Ave). A pinnacle of "new Portland" and, if the Pearl District has a heart, albeit one made of glass and concrete, this may very well be it. All the yuppies around here love it to death. Spendy and pretentious but reportedly great. Someone I know, who may very well be the human equivalent of Remy the rat, once said he'd eat there every day if he could only afford it.

LOWER END BUT STILL CLASSY: Le Pigeon (738 E Burnside St). French food. Small, cozy and bent on recreating the feel of dining in a turn-of-the-century Parisan bisto. Vintage chairs, candlesticks, gilded mirrors, etc.

CLASSY BUT STRANGE: Mother's Bistro (212 SW Stark). The place every female over 30 seems to love in this town. A hard place to explain. The decor throughout the sprawling interior looks like it was cherry-picked from both a New Orleans whorehouse and the White House. Most of what's on the menu is comfort food but spruced up.

THE OBVIOUS: The Kennedy School (5736 NE 33rd Ave). Any McMenamins is bound to give a pair of east coast professionals culture shock but if they're going to venture into one, they may as well do it up proper. Get this: it's an old haunted elementary school that's been turned into a cigar bar/movie theater/brewery/hotel/restaurant. There's even a bar in the old detention room. Kooky and unlike anything anywhere else? Yup, that's what it is.

ANOTHER PLACE EMBLEMATIC OF "WEIRD" PORTLAND BUT NOT TOO GRUNGY AND FILLED WITH HIPSTERS THAT MIGHT FRIGHTEN THEM: Le Bistro Montage (301 SE Morrison). Out-of-towners that aren't creeped out by the dank exterior and the fact that it's located under a bridge all seem to dig it. Like the Kennedy School, you'll never find anything like it anywhere. Waiters in tuxedo t-shirts, crocodile gumbo, 10 different kinds of Mac and Cheese, twisted recreations of "The Last Supper" on the wall, communal tables and leftovers brought to diners wrapped in tinfoil shaped like animals. It's the sort of place that I imagine people tell their friends about back home when they describe how supposedly "weird' this city is.

Four other recommendations I'm too lazy to look up: Old Town Pizza, The Doug Fir Lounge and Chez Machin on Hawthorne

Labels: Portland, restaurants

I was born a generation too late to ever eat a burger at Yaw's but, from what I've heard, the drive-in was once a local institution. For decades it served up innumerable happy memories. Many a local Baby Boomer squealed with delight when news hit that the late, great burger joint would reopen under the watch of none other than Mark Lindsey, former frontman for Paul Revere and the Raiders.

I'm not sure if fans of the original are going to take to this new incarnation though. I walked by last night and "Mark Lindsey's Rock & Roll Cafe/Yaw's" is a far cry from long-running area joints like the Giant, Humdinger or the Skyline Cafe. When I first heard about the re-opening, I pictured something along the lines of the old Jamie's chain or the drive-in Ron Howard ran around during the opening credits of Happy Days. This place is much more upscale.

Last night the owners were hosting a soft-opening and, even if I'd had an invite, I'm sure I would have been kicked out for wearing jeans and a t-shirt. There were hostesses guarding the front doors. The crowd was mostly over 50 and looked, how do you say, "well to do." That wasn't enough to deter me getting a look at the place through the windows.

Instead of a malt-shop, the cafe looks more like the inside of the Hard Rock Hotel in Vegas or something you'd see in the Pearl District. Housed inside a cold, brick building, the cafe is dark, fake and feels like a martini bar or a restaurant with menu items in the "$$$" range. A round bar, the kind with booze bottles instead of soda jerks, is centered in the middle of the main dining room. Even if the bartender is willing serve you a milkshake, you're going to feel like a schmuck for drinking one in such ornate surroundings, despite the record covers on the ceiling (see above, sorry for the sub-par, cell phone quality).

Regardless of how completely wrong it feels, I hope the new Yar's does well. The cafe/radio station/museum idea is definitely ambitious and the idea of being able to wave at on-air DJs while driving down NE Sandy is cool enough. Portland could use a standing tribute to its musical legacy but did it have to be like this? Yet another icy yuppie hang-out in a city full of them?

When Rose's reopened in NW a number of years ago, it was updated but still managed to retain a lot of its original charm. I can't help but predict that the Rock & Roll Cafe is going to be the sort of place people go to once, much like a Planet Hollywood. Will it be able to pull in enough regulars to keep it going for decades like the original?

Sorry guys, I think I'm going to stick with Fat City, the Skyline or any of million other local burger joints that don't serve $8 cocktails.

Labels: Portland, restaurants

The debate has dragged on for years now. On one side: me. On the other: people that have spent too much time in French classes. I've been subjected to numerous "corrections" but I've never bothered to do a little internet research and find out who's right.

Is crepe pronounced "crape" or "crep"?

Sure enough, according to Webster's, in the English vernacular the word is pronounced "crape." As long as my feet are set squarely on American soil, I can say "crape" to my heart's content without fear of reprisal or eye rolls. I don't care how the French pronounce the word, this is the USA and here we say "crape."

I'm right. Those who dare correct me are wrong. I win. Hooray for me.

After work I may have to celebrate with a "crape" at Chez Machin, a "crapery" on SE Hawthorne. This cozy bistro is full of enough faux-French decor to make Pepe Le Pu swoon or anyone who hates a certain country full of "cheese eating surrender monkeys" puke in their suits. It's at least 67% as adorable as Amelie and 99.7% less smelly than the Paris Metro. Counterbalancing all the cuteness is a row of avant garde art displays made out of random bits of machinery and lights. They can be fond in the hallway leading towards the bathroom.

I've been going to Le Machin for years after discovering Orangina. The Algerian soda, now produced in France, is on the menu and tastes like a combination of orange juice and 7-Up. There's also Nutella, an ingredient used in a few of their sweet crepes. I'd never tasted the stuff before setting foot in Chez Machin but I'm convinced it could be as addictive as unfiltered cigarettes. The bistro's savory crepes aren't quite enough to sate a hearty American appetite but the decor and the menu make up for it.

The back porch is a nice place to plow through a copy of the Mercury on a warm spring day and, during clear weather, there's a few tables outside near the main entrance. During a recent visit a waitress decided to speak en Français as I sat at a sidewalk table. My dining companion and I played along, our orders in English, her responses in French. Adding another level of intrigue: halfway through the meal random people walked by with bundles of lavender. Between the fragrant scent that filled the block, the French cafe and the glowing marquee of the Baghdad, Hawthorne briefly felt much more exotic than it is, like a spot halfway between "showcases" at EPCOT or a limbo world of mishmashed global flare.

And then a passing dog licked my feet while trying to get to a piece of bread under the table.

After paying the tab, we discovered the source of the lavender. A hippie bloke was wandering up and down the street handing it out. We should have grabbed some but instead we rolled over to Movie Madness to rent Commando. After an evening of idyllic international dinning, what better way to chase it than by watching Arnold Schwarzenegger kill the entire population of a foreign locale?

Labels: Commando, Portland, restaurants

What is this? I'll give you three guesses:

A: A tongue hotdog

B. A tongue hotdog

C. A tongue hotdog

D. All of the above.

Got the answer yet? I found this on the menu at Rocket, a snazz-drenched new restaurant on East Burnside, which feels like it blasted off from a corner in the cold, gray heart of the Pearl District before crash landing on top of the Chesterfield Building.

I'll be blunt. Everything on the menu is priced $2 -$10 over what it's worth. While the staff was friendly, the restaurant they work in isn't. $7 bought me a hotdog on a plate, nothing more, nothing less. The ballyhooed deck, which offers a great view of downtown and the 1190 KEX billboard atop Hippo Hardware, is all concrete and as cold as ice. Definitely not the sort of place you would want to loiter atop, especially on a windy day. As I headed outside, a gust sent two menus flying off a table and down to the street below.

From Burnside the entrance is unmarked. I found the place by marching up five flights of stairs. Any mention of "Rocket" is nowhere to be found at street level or even on the windows or main door. That aside, the main dinning area and bar is beautifully designed, in a Target commercial dreamscape sort of way. If the interior of the Space Needle had been quickly laid out on a napkin by Hugh Hefner circa 1965, this is what it might look like. Plush booths, smooth surfaces, big windows. On the hi-fi trickling down from the ceiling? Space rock ranging from the Who to the Smashing Pumpkins to the Arcade Fire. The SP song I caught? "Rocket." Clever? Eh, not really.

I guess the prices keep the riffraff away. Despite being a card-carrying member of the riffraff set, I shelled out an extra $7 for a small salad and, yeah, it was everything a $7 small salad should be. Just enough dressing, a decent portion with breadcrumbs. Unfortunately, the tongue itself tasted liike a cross between shredded beef and overcooked pork. Also on the menu: $10 burgers and Miller Hi-Life.

As of a few weeks ago, Rocket was a restaurant stuck in flux and seemingly desperate to appeal to two different groups: yuppies and hipsters. The drink menu and many of the entrees are bound to chase away the former and the gentrified prices are sure to keep away the later. The Doug Fir this ain't.

PS: Yes, the title of this post is a reference to a Def Leppard song

Labels: Portland, restaurants

Sushi go-round restaurants: some people fear 'em, some people won't go near 'em. I regret to say that the first time I tried sushi, I was 21 and it was in one of these places. Looking back, it might have been the best place to start. After diving into the world o' sushi on one of its bottom rungs, anything mediocre tastes downright divine.

If you aren't familiar with them, go-rounds are the equivalent of fast food in the world o' sushi. Patrons sit at a large, round bar on stools around a conveyor belt that carts around cheap items ranging from edamame to cucumber rolls to sticks of Pocky. A team of sushi chefs stand in the center and add new items as need be.

I had my first bite of sushi at Marineopolis in Beaverton, which is to sushi what Burger King is to cheeseburgers. After years of making bad jokes about "how could anyone want to eat raw fish," a colleague dragged me out to there for a plate of unagi (freshwater eels). In hindsight, the rice was soggy, the unagi was lukewarm and it had probably been making the rounds for over an hour. At the time though, I didn't know the difference and I was immediately hooked.

In the weeks and months that followed, I was averaging a trip to a sushi go-round every two weeks. Room-temperature edamame, rotgut California rolls, miso soup that consisted of little more than broth, spicy tuna rolls with all the kick of a dead donkey- I couldn't get enough of stuff that would cause a discerning sushi eater to weep if it touched their taste buds.

Sushi-gobblin' isn't a poor man's game but there are those of us willing to play anyway. After Sushiland, my new addiction led me to Sushi Takahasi in Chinatown. In time since I discovered it, the place has become popular to the point where a wait on a weekend night can run over 30 minutes for a spot at the bar. Despite the cool tea house atmosphere and a toy train that carts around plates of sushi instead of a more traditional conveyor belt, you won't find it anywhere near any given list of recommended sushi restaurants in Portland. I'd rate the quality of the rolls down there right around what you might find in a Fred Meyer deli case with a red discount sticker slapped on the side. Despite my incredibly low standards, a trip to Sushi Takahasi back in February might be my last. The decor was getting shabby, I had to wait forever for a seat, the sushi was worse than usual and I was wedged between a drunk hipster couple and a fireman sitting next to his teenage daughter. They spent the whole time bickering about her decision to take a post-high school gig in a factory instead of enrolling at PCC.

Sometime later, I made my first trip to Sushiville on NW 23rd. It's the best go-round joint I know of in Portland and it too is becoming more and more popular. Still, I can think of at least one local sushi snob that angrily headed for the exits after spitting out an avocado roll. If you go, give the caterpillar rolls a shot. They aren't half bad.

Despite the low quality, go-rounds are popping up like weeds around town. Recently, two opened within a few weeks of one another downtown. Blue Fin Sushi on SW Broadway near PSU isn't bad but I wasn't impressed with their variety during a recent trip and the loud '90s dance pop pounding out of the restaurant's stereo system doesn't help matters. This painting I found in the mens room was pretty cool though:

Better is the new Sushiland (part of a chain that also owns Marineopolis) in the Pearl District a block away from Powell's. Unlike its suburban predecessors, the sushi is higher quality and there's a bar upstairs. I headed down there on Saturday before a trip over to the Baghdad. When their conveyor belt ran out of unagi, a chef behind the counter cranked out another plate and had it over to me in two minutes flat.

You can find sushi just about anywhere in PDX, some good, some bad and I suspect that a lot of people out there don't know the difference. It'll be a long time before I'll ever be a true sushi connoisseur. On the spot, the best roll I've ever eaten would have likely been the unagi at Bush Garden downtown. Can anyone out there come up with a reasonably-priced alternative here locally that can top their stuff? I'm sure it won't be much of a challenge.

Labels: Portland, restaurants, sushi

You know what we don't have enough of here in the 21st century? Soda fountains and soda shops. When was the last time you met a soda jerk? Are they still around or did they all die off back in the mid-'60s? Maybe there's a small collective of them living somewhere in Arizona, like the Amish. Plying their trade, making hot fudge sundaes and grilled cheese sandwiches, waiting for their craft to come back into style again. I don't know about you but I'd rather see a soda fountain on every block than a Starbucks.

I've heard rumors of a few old pharmacies around town that still have soda fountains but I don't know where any of them are located. Fortunately for those of us in search of oversized milkshakes and comfort food downtown, there's Blueplate on SW Washington. The staff down there don't say "swell" and their arms are more likely to sport tattoos than leather straps to hold up their shirt sleeves but they've successfully managed to update the soda fountains of yore.

One shining example of their efforts:

The Cowboy Coffee Milkshake made with beans from Stumptown Coffee (a local chain of coffee shops that are quickly becoming a symbol of Portland pride bigger than both the rose garden AND the Rose Garden). In one glass it combines the best of both the coffee and the milkshake worlds. It also has a pretty solid caffeine kick. Definitely not the sort of thing you would want to hand over to a hyperactive kid. They'd be up for days.

In addition to sodas with flavors like "ginger spice" and "vanilla honey," Blueplate covers the typical soda fountain bases. There's traditional banana splits, hot fudge sundaes, root beer floats and milkshakes on the menu next to updated house specialty sodas like the "Chai Bomb," which combines a weird selection of spices into its mix.

On the food front, the menu changes daily. The only item that can be found down there every day is the grilled cheese and tomato soup combo. During a recent visit, they were serving meat loaf. The diner's website tells me that the daily "blue plate" specials range from sploppy joes to reubens to turkey and fixings. It's a quirky business move but not one that I can really get behind. I like going into a restaurant with a good idea of what I'm going to get. I usually stick with the grilled cheese and the soup.

Another drawback is Blueplate's hours, 11 AM - 5 PM, Monday - Friday. They're strictly a weekday lunch joint but, if they expanded their menu and added in a few regular dishes, I could see the place drawing crowds well into the wee hours. Aside from a few late-night happy hours, I don't think there are enough places to get a cheap meal after dark downtown.

Blueplate could be big if they stayed opened late to cater to bar hoppers, scenesters, etc looking for a bite to eat before they head home for the night. Why go over to that Taco Bell on Burnside for crap to soak up all that booze when you can walk to a place like Blueplate with better atmosphere and a big, kitschy soda fountain that looks like it was lifted out an Archie comic?

Maybe it's just me, but I think Blueplate could become another Voodoo Doughnut, one of those ubiquitous Portland places that everyone takes out-of-towners to. Both take something old and turn them into something new and great.

Labels: Portland, restaurants