Diversion/PDX: TORO BRAVO

THIS is a chef I follow.  This is Joh Gorham's Toro Bravo.  And this may be my favorite restaurant... in the world.  The aesthetic, the vibe, the service, the space, the seating... okay NOT the no-reservations policy, but the food, the food, the food.  The stuff that's been on the menu since its opening is ethereal, and the new additions are as good and better. There's something on this menu for everyone... except for those fearful of life-altering deliciousness.



The menu is broken down into pinchos (appetizers), tapas (small plates), charcutaria, raciones (entrees), and I just noticed there is a $30 tasting menu which will definitely be my plan-of-action for a next visit.  I recommend sitting at the bar if possible, as it's usually quicker, AND you have the added benefit of enjoying the zippy, addictive nut-and-seed melange offered- without delaying your dinner at all.  For table seating, you may have your wait cut out for you, as this restaurant's excellence is no secret.  But once you're seated, the adventure begins.  Although they weren't on the menu this time, I remember Toro's as my first introduction to fried shishitos: an oily and salty roulette of intermittently mild and spicy-hot peppers, never knowing which might be which, but all the more exciting as a result.  In their stead we ordered a perfect salad of Groundwork's Greens, with pickled beets and roasty hazelnuts and smeary daubs of fromage blanc.

Arriving next (plates present as they are ready, which may or may not be in order in which you prefer to consume them) were sauteed brussels sprouts with bacon sherry cream and griddled shrimp with chiles, both of which we plowed into so rapidly I forgot to snap a picture before we were 75% done.  Finally, though, a guy getting his brussels sprouts right: the leaves nutty and crisped, the centers meltingly tender, all wallowing in a bacony bath.  The shrimp were monstrous, head-on jobbers, not as transcendent as the sprouts, perhaps, but inimitably fresh and perfectly cooked, with nice bit of heat from the chilies.  Salsify in lemon bacon cream arrived just in time to divert our gluttony long enough for me to photograph the remainder of the shrimp and sprouts (now conjoined on a single plate to make room), and despite its rich ingredients, had a lovely, lighter feel and milder flavor, the earthy tuber soft and succulent in smooth lemony cream, studded with hammy chunks of smoky bacon.

Then came the dish I forgot I'd had before, but immediately recalled once I saw (and smelled) it: hedgehog mushrooms on griddled bread, with a sherry-spiked cream... like they most idyllic vegetarian s.o.s. imagineable.  The salty sauce saturated the crusty loaf of  Ken's Artisan, beneath a drool-worthy tumble of toothsome mushrooms.  This could be a meal in itself.  With a scrambled egg, a brunch to end all brunches.  For a lumberjack, an rib-sticking afternoon snack.  For anyone with a tastebud, a must-eat experience.

But we didn't stop there.  A terra cotta ramekin of braised pork with collard greens joined cornmeal dumplings, redolent of cheese, in a sumptuous stew hearty enough to cut any Portland-caliber chill.  Lucky to have tried this one, too, as it was not one of chef/owner (/genius) John Gorham's doings, but his new head chef, Kasey Mills.  With it, he proved he can not only propagate Gorham's talent, but foster his own as well.  

The only thing wrong with dinner that night is that NEXT time I come to Toro I need to remember NOT to stuff myself silly, so I can sample a few offerings off that dessert menu:  bourbon date pudding with sweet cream (John's got a thing for bourbon: see his latest venture, Interurban), baked apples and pears with ice cream, and churros, cakes, crepes, and creams of every nature.  Stumptown coffee accompanies, of course, and that is honestly dessert in and of itself- or at least a worthy meal-terminating treat. And I'm talking about a meal of this caliber, where of the fifty+ item menu, there's nary a runt in the bunch. Bravo, Toro, bravo.

    Toro Bravo | Portland | Reservations

120 NE Russell St. Portland, OR 97212

Open d

503.281.4464 

120 NE Russell St, 
Portland, OR 97209 
503 281.4464

TORO

I think I have a thing for bulls.  Lucky for me, there are Toro varietals all over the place.  Toro Bravo (unaffiliated) is one I've claimed to be my favorite restaurant ever.  I had my eye on El Toro Blanco (Mexican) until I was dissuaded by a very trusted source.  Now chefs Ken Oringer and 2014 James Beard Best Chef NE winner Jamie Bissonette have brought their Boston native Toro to New York City, on the same stretch of 10th avenue with such heavy-hitting stalwarts Del Posto and Colicchio & Sons.  Well, the address says 10th avenue; you really have to walk almost to eleventh to find the door.  But the restaurant itself is just really big.  Far west of the trendy Meat Packing District, Toro retains some of the nuances of both neighbors, but at the same time a welcome rusticity that releases it a bit from the surrounding pomp.  That's not to say it's not an occasion destination- the price points here certainly derive from the enormous real estate upon which it sits, super-quality sourcing of ingredients and celebrity-chef notoriety ... all adding up to one pricey repast.  But it is money well spent, and no hints disappointment even nudged the experience- except for that maybe I would've wanted a little bit more of it.

Toro is palatially large: the open kitchen far in the back showcases the chefs doing their thing, but from our table near the front, they looked like small marionettes prancing about an illuminated stage.  Apparently, the majority of work is being done in a kitchen which measures like a half a subterranean block away, the above-ground open kitchen just providing some of the a la plancha dishes and a lively show.  Despite its spaciousness, the place fills up quickly.  No sooner than we were seated did the bar crowd begin to multiply, the noise level right along with it.  So if you tend to be less than thrilled with a little seat-bumping and raucous, celebration-caliber laughter, maybe go really early and avoid the prime-time crowds, or at least see if you can reserve a table as far from the bar as possible.

But don't let the cacophony distract too much from the marvels of the menu.  We bypassed ordering the shishito peppers in favor of cheffier dishes, but our neighbor's order of them looked so enticing I'm still rueing that omission.  Soothing over that loss, however, the best dish of the night arrived as our first: a plate of coliflor y kohlrabi, roasted with a zesty array of golden raisins, pignoli and anchovies with a light dusting of pimenton de la vera for subtle heat.  It recalled a similar dish I had at nearby Salinas, and I would love to see the two of them go head to head in a battle for superiority: I would be one happy judge,
regardless of the outcome.  Setas come crowned with a golden yolk intended to be stirred in to the saute to augment its richness, but frankly I think I would've preferred it without.  The melange became a little gummy in its eggy coating, and it seemed to tamp the well-garlicked and -herbed flavor of the mushrooms.
And for the $16 price tag, I would've well done without the egg and hopefully shaved a few dollars off.  On that note, you could also add cocks comb for and additional three dollars, but nearly $20 for a small plate of mushrooms, regardless of the accoutrements, seems... excessive.

From the Tapas Calientes section of the menu we took Suquet de Mariscos, a wonderfully soothing potage of lobster, urchin and parsnip.  I detected no pieces of the latter, so I'm guessing the ivory opacity of the broth came from the pureed tuber rather than cream, although from its indulgent flavor it's hard to know.  Crunchy shards of frizzled onions were the perfect foil for the mildly oceanic stew.  While the monkfish cheeks in Moroccan spices were so tempting, we had to make do with that as far as the seafood quotient, the bill rapidly mounting.  Flavors here are so robust that the diminutive portions don't always seem flagrant, and none so much as the tiny cup of sliced, marinated skirt steak nuzzled in a red onion marmalade and cabrales butter.  The funk of the blue cheese made the dish, balancing the sweetness of the jam and elevating the tender, rare beef.  Served mounded up in its little bowl, its scantness was deceptive, but splayed out on a regular plate it would not have attained Ozersky's seal of approval.  But they are tapas sizedeven if some hover near entree prices.  None of them price in the single digits except an escalivada of eggplant (which is really more of a dip) and the patatas bravas, which were by far the most voluminous dish, a daunting pile of chunked spud crisped golden and slathered with globs of mayo bedded in dusty tasting tomato sauce.  The potatoes tasted flour, unspectacular, and

underseasoned without a vigorous swirl in their sauces, and really only achieved deliciousness with a renegade swipe in the juices from the filete (that cabrales butter would make a saddle delicious).    At any rate most plates tip toward the twenty dollar end of the scale, and with the three to four dishes recommended per person, the bill can get profound.  And the thing is, I still had more than enough room for dessert.





I can't say I wasn't happy, however, to have retained sufficient capacity to be able sample a sweet, as it turns out.  We chose a riff on the summeriest of desserts: a strawberry shortcake that subbed in golden cubes of moist, crisp-edged olive oil cake surrounded by glistening, jammy berries and pillows of frothy whipped cream subtly flavored with port.  There were a couple of other dessert options, too, rattled off by our waitress (no dessert menu): housemade churros and some chocolate mousse concoction if I remember correctly, and if I heard correctly over the elevated din.  But by this time, we had acclimated to the rowdy volume, and sort of entered celebration-mode ourselves.  The noise isn't really a deterrent in the end, as long as you're not too sensitive.  This kind of bull, well... it deserves a little "Ole!"

85 10TH AVENUE
Entrance on 15th Street and 11th Avenue
212.691.2360

Diversion/PDX: TASTY 'N SONS

John Gorham already established himself as one of my favorite chefs from my visit to his first restaurant, Toro Bravo, a Basque tapas joint in Northeast.  His latest venture, Tasty 'n Sons, originated as a brunch/breakfast-all-day destination (although my dad has serious qualms with their interpretation of "all day", as he showed up one morning for breakfast around 8am on a weekday... and they didn't open 'til eleven.  Not everyone's idea of what constitutes a mealtime coalesce.  Sorry, Dad.)  At any rate, the exhuberant success of the  Tasty brunch inspired expansion to Tasty everything.  While breakfasty stuff is served all day, they now boast a full dinner menu, starting at 5pm.  So after an adventurous afternoon out on Sauvie Island, Tasty 'n Sons presented the ideal destination to sate some well-developed appetites.   And every available square ounce of appetite worked-up was going to be put to good use.

I can tell you one thing right off the bat: it's hard to order here.  Hard in a good way.  There're very few offerings that didn't incite an instantaneous salivatory response, and with the extremely reasonable pricing, your greatest misstep will be over-ordering.  But there are, in life, always doggie bags.

Upon analysis, a good deal of our repast featured variations on corn, which makes sense, as it was coming into peak season.  El Maiz Loco on the cob (brand new on the menu, and kind of the trendy item of the moment) featured three humongous, juicy ears, slathered in house-made mayo and heavily dusted with pulverized parmesan and a sprinkle of piment d'espelette- an absolutely extraordinary rendition of Mexican elote.  And on the topic of corn, I still cannot figure how Gorham imbued THAT much corn flavor into his plush little hushpuppies.  Crisped buttery and golden on the outside, they harbor a cake-like

interior so impossibly corny it was like a nugget of pure summer.  Next up came chicken-fried duck, a decidely UN-bikini-friendly main plying two substantial legs over a mound of of the best potato salad I have every encountered: creamy without any real evidence of mayo, sweet only from the natural essence of the creamy Yukon Golds, plus a lively crunch from tidbits of mild onion and celery.  Speaking of crunch, the shatterably crunchy coating which encased the dark, tender duck meat again showcased corn (flakes), creating a crave-worthy shell that picked up any slack from the duck itself, which wasn't exceptionally flavorful, and benefitted extensively from the tangy yellow apricot chutney aside.

Forging ahead, we lightened things up a bit with a brilliant bouillabaisse, chock full of the tenderest chunks of cod, meaty prawns, clams and mussels- all flawlessly fresh.  The broth just whispered of tomato, saffron, seashells  and ocean, but was mopped up by the big, garlicky crouton any drop that my

spoon couldn't collar.  In a nod to Bravo, we ordered the Toro spinach: glistening baby leaves lightly sauteed but heavily garlicked, and reminding me of the need of a return visit to its source.
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Although challenging precariously the limits of the stomach's capacity, I don't get back to Portland often enough to risk skipping out on dessert.  So in a blasphemous act of disregard to John's personal recommendation of Ingrid's rum cake (which looked decadently moist), we opted for vanilla panna cotta with seasonal berries, which arrived a small crock of luxurious cream as dense as clotted but smooth and light on the palate, with a hint of cultured tang and a gentle sweetness.  Hyper-ripe, local black, blue and raspberries leaked their juices into the thick,
pure white delicacy, the simplicity almost defying its perfection.

So on second though, in a moment of clarity only possible after the food-induced euphoria had passed, the real problem in the end is not deciding what to order.... but the 2,898 miles that lie between my fork and Gorham's skillet.

3808 N. Williams, Suite C, Portland, OR 97212
503.621.1400

TERTULIA

Glomming on to the recent no-reservations trend for parties less than six, Seamus Mullen's Tertulia pretty much requires an hour + wait unless you get there at 5 o'clock.  This place is bumping, inside and out, and truth be told, it's worth it.  Worth it to get there that early, if a drink at the packed bar and waiting that long is unappealing, or in endeavoring upon those latter pastimes if you wanna get the full experience.

Much like Boqueria (Flatiron and Downtown), Mullen's former successes, Tertulia is a celebration of Spanish tapas, this time with a Basque focus.  The name derives from a Spanish term for a literary salon, and has evolved into its modern usage of a place where people can enjoy great conversation, drinks and food.  Given the cacophonous noise levels here, I don't know if the first prerequisite holds true, but the food and drink definitely live up to the title.

Squeezing past the sardine-packed bar, we joined two other parties at the far end of a communal table.  My chair was so lofty I felt like a child in a highchair, but any conspicuousness quickly ebbed as the relaxed, convivial atmosphere began to affect its charm.   Our server was chipper and savvy, and we didn't need a lot of time to start ordering.   The tempting aromas wafting from the kitchen were incentive enough to get food on our plates as quickly as possible.  Fresh from Toro Bravo (see review/12-23-11), I was anxious to try the tosta setas to compare.  It, unfortunately, couldn't hold a candle to Gorham's version, although for fairness's sake, they were drastically different: this one was a cold crouton smeared with smoky ricotta and topped with a vinegary melange of small mushrooms spritzed with spicy little pepper flakes.  Toro's is hot and saucy, which I vastly preferred, and even think warming up Tertulia's version would've improved it as well.

Croquetas de jamon iberico, though, initiated Tertulia's real momentum: crispy orbs oozing a sweet, mild bechamel studded with tender chunks of ham are served over daubs of quince paste.  Delicious.  One of my favorite things ever, fried pimientos de Padron, sparkle with flakes of salt- " lots of salt" states the menu, and they're not yanking your chain.  But they are perfect.  If you have blood pressure issues, well, just shake some of it off.  Personally, I could eat a bowl of that salt alone, impregnated with the flavor of the peppers.  Another vegetable success is the coles de bruselas: an original take on the crucifer, cooking them long and hot 'til their leaves are crisp and their hearts have melted, then seasoned intensely with a zesty, garlicky mojo picon.  Who says Spanish food is all about the meat?  That said, there is a full array of embutidos, but more the focus here is food from the kitchen, rather than Boqueria's market-based simplicity.

I was pretty excited for our last plate, and proudly experimental, too.  But the plate that arrived tested me a little more than I'd bargained for:  the Zamburinas y Mollejas was exponentially more sweetbreads, scallops and mushrooms than scallops, mushroom and sweetbreads as described on the menu.   An earthy-sweet parsnip puree rounds out the meaty offal and delicate crustaceans.  But it was an exquisite dish, subtly and richly flavored, and while the paucity of scallops left my dining companion finishing off a surplus of glands, he did look pretty content doing so.

We closed out with a crumbly, caramelly apple cake, sticky sweet with a buttery caramel and thick, rum ice cream, if a little scarce of actual apples.  Like the dinner menu, minimalist descriptions belie enormous pleasures.  Small portions work well at this place, because flavors are so amplified as to render bigger doses excessive.  Everything at Tertulia works, from the anticipation created by the no-reservations policy and the festive atmosphere of communal dining, to the robustly Spanish flourish and happy, gracious, and helpful waitstaff.  It is, it seems, just exactly what you would expect of a tertulia.

359 6th Avenue (corner of Washington Place)

tel. (646) 559-9900

DIVERSION PDX: OX

Following, I am, true to form.  From MetroVino, where I was not only impressed by Greg Denton's food, but by the amicable chef himself, I tracked him to his relatively new venture, Ox.  Not far from two of my other favorite Portland haunts, Toro Bravo and Ned Ludd, this North Portland nabe is quickly becoming a haven of deliciousness.  Described as "Argentine inspired Portland food", Ox isn't ascribing to be an authentic South American grill, but instead conjoining the best of both worlds to a current and festive end.

We sat in a skylit backroom adjunct to the main dining room, just adjacent to the woodfired stove, which pumped out heat that we couldn't feel, but was readily evident in the beaded foreheads of the chefs manning the grill.  The dining room was full upon our arrival, and the annex where we sat soon the same.  No reservations for parties less than six, so don your blue wig, or perhaps bide your time at Whey Bar next door, the jovial drink hall primarily opened up as a holding tank for waiting diners.

Ox features not only the obvious prime carnivorous options, but also a wealth of uniquely prepared produce- that which the ox would till.   Ox is just fancy enough to begin our repast with a complimentary amuse: a delectable chilled potato soup drizzled with chive oil, cool and mildly peppery.  We ordered three dishes from Del Huerto (the garden), two of which we chose to arrive as starters, a bi-bean salad composed of green beans and romanos, bedecked in shaved radishes and those indigenous Oregon filberts (hazelnuts) nuzzled in a delectable romesco featuring those nuts instead of the classic almonds.  Another could've practically sufficed as a small meal: blistered (and they truly were) padron peppers (alert! there were

 some spicy ones in there!) topped a hearty bowl of pochon beans stewed with grilled Ox Garden tomatoes slicked with a rich lemon mayonnaise.  Salty and zesty and creamy and rich and bowl-lickingly good.

With a name like Ox, we had to try an undebatably carnivorous option: flanken-style beef short rib differed from the more common braised preparation, perhaps sacrificing some tenderness that a slow braise accomplished, but heightening the true beefy intensity of this meaty cut.    Selections from the Asados section of the menu are served simply with bread and a bracing chimichurri sauce, wonderful for anointing the meat but just as good to absorb with the chewy, crusty bread.  A Flintstonian T-Bone of wild Alaskan


 halibut might've outmeated the meat, though.  This behemoth cut charred like pitch but flaked like snow, crusted with a savory rub and almost comically decorated in delicate edible flowers, which just emphasized its stature.  Served alone, these Asados demand some accoutrements- not to beef them up (no pun intended) but to round things out.

  The ash roasted Walla Walla sweet mingled with buttered snap peas in a luxurious sauce enriched with fourme d'Ambert blue like no peas 'n pearl onions your mom ever made.  It paired especially well with the short ribs.   A maitake mushroom with smoked salt (which could be supersized as an entree) celebrated the mushroom's earthy flavor, simply sprinkled with chives and bachelor's buttons.  I liked it with the halibut, and plus, their flowers sort of matched.



On the cheffier side are a category of Braises & Roasts, more "one plate" type of options from which I tried a sautee of scallops, clams and mussels in a sumptuous puttanesca sauce fortified with roasted fennel and potatoes.  It didn't need anything aside except a wide spoon and a big appetite.  Made sure none of the remaining bread went to waste with it, too.


Chef Denton's wife, Gabi, is in charge of pastry, and I'm not sure whether Greg is more exuberant about his own cooking or the sweet finales she creates.  The restaurant seems to discourage you at all costs from leaving before dessert, and be sure to heed their commands.  A crowd favorite is the Magic- a nostalgic elevation of the grocery store novelty, Magic Shell.  Intensely dark chocolate armors a scoop of robust roasted peach-blackberry sorbet, surrounded by a battalion of exquisite summer fruits, the blackberries and cherries big as walnuts, the peaches would've required a sink had you been eating them out of hand.   For my part, however, I must wax poetic on the Torte- a warm hazelnut brown butter blondie with orgasmic honey-chamomile ice cream and a towering shard of crisp, sweet honeycomb.  Certainly we were too full from dinner to finish them, but then somehow they were gone.

The menu descriptions are simple, but the food here really is anything but.  No tweezers, no, or foams or pearls, but profoundly satisfying flavors and exciting tweaks of genius.  The name might lead you to expect a steakhouse vibe, but there is a tremendous lot more going on here than just that.  Even the humble slogan, "Argentine inspired Portland food" leaves something out; it should read "Argentine inspired GREAT Portland food".

2225 NE Martin Luther King Boulevard
5 'til close/Tuesday through Sunday
503.284.3366

Portland vs. New York

So this is gonna be controversial, but I think, on the whole, Portland's food is way more exciting than New York's. There are great things, OBVIOUSLY, in both cities. But what Greg Denton is doing at Superbite, with Andy Ricker as probably the best Thai chef in the country, Jason Francis French's basically instigating the whole wood oven fired cooking craze, Toro Bravo is still my favorite Spanish, the national acclaim for The Pigeon, the brilliant authenticity of Renata.... I really think Portland's bar is higher. Sssooooo....... what do YOU think?