Diversion:PDX/Cafe Castagna

The night after visiting Cafe Castagna, my dad (only sort of jokingly) asked me to go back all the way across town just to bring him another one of the bread puddings we had devoured. And while he was waxing poetic on dessert, I wished I had leftovers of my roasted shrimp with chickpeas to enjoy again... and again. Castagna was voted Best Restaurant in 2011 by The Oregonian's Diner, and has experienced much change from its opening over ten years ago. It now finds itself in the capable hands of chef Matt Lightner, who is enjoying accolades near and far. During the busy holiday season in which we were amidst, I couldn't justify another fancy dinner out, but I made a convincing enough argument to visit Cafe Castagna, its less formal counterpart housed at the same address. It seems that many of the buzzy Portland restaurants are concentrated in this south east section of the city, a previous no-man's land, probably much like was the East Village in New York (or EVERY dingy nabe in New York) which now hosts one of the city's most bustling restaurant scenes. The glowy light of the restaurant cast a warm aura onto the slushy sidewalks outside, a harbinger of the softly lit dining room with walls painted golden. An airy mobile dangled from the ceiling, echoing the shadows of bare-branched winter trees that cast their silhouettes on the translucent windows in front . A table was immediately available (yes, of course, no reservations taken for parties smaller than five), mostly due to the early hour. Still, every table remained filled throughout the course of the evening, for all the good reasons to follow.

The menu is extremely well-priced, even by Portland (as opposed to New York) standards. For the exquisite flavors, thoughtful preparations, beautiful platings and substantial portions, the price points are astounding. (Perhaps they make some of it up by the upscale mother restaurant next door?) A steaming puree of celeriac soup, in a bowl deep and wide, arrived drizzled with a spiral of creme fraiche and floating tiny brioche croutons, crunchy and light, sprinkled with green onion. Roasted beets came soused
in a mustardy puree paired with pristine sprigs of mache (ah, my favorite salad green!), untossed, so that the delicate lettuce didn't succumb to the substantial dressing. I am always so thankful for a beet dish NOT paired with goat cheese (it's a true, but predictable combination), and this one was exemplary. The most expensive starter is a half dozen oysters at $16, but some, like roasted shrimp with chickpeas, or calamari with chorizo (both $13), are big and robust enough to pair with a side dish as a main course. Five jumbo roasted shrimp mingle with a generous dose of meaty chickpeas in a rich, oily tomato sauce, flecked with minced emerald green herbs. Be sure to use the sliced baguette to mop up the sauce (skip the kitschy little pats of foil wrapped butter... I guess they're saving the good stuff for next door).

Speaking of main courses, the burgers (eleven measly dollars) were literally flying out of the kitchen; there must have been one at every table but ours, skinny little golden fries tumbling off the plate in their excess, tantalizing burger-less bystanders. I must learn to overcome my aversion to sandwiches for dinner, or else tote along more Josh Ozersky-types as eating companions (although I doubt he'd share a bite). At any rate, their highly acclaimed popularity was more than well-illustrated on this particular evening. Other entrees maintain a modest disposition, but are more sophisticated in practice. A house-made garlic sausage didn't burn with garlic, but with pungent horseradish, nestled on a bed of braised cabbage, fragrant with lardons, and joined by some roasted fingerlings. It's a typical choucroute type of dish, but a little less rustic . In the same vein was a humble zuppa di pesce, which arrived in an unexpectedly creamy broth, fragrant with leeks and saffron. A buttery filet of meltingly soft white fish folded itself the seafood-laden soup, touting a jauntily perched crouton with a generous slather of lemony aioli. So much seafood and such nuanced flavor for couple of Jacksons... and only a cassoulet at $25 and a flat iron steak at $22 were any pricier. Side dishes aren't required to fill out any of the entrees, which come with their fare share of accoutrements, but with such reasonable prices, any of them will be another $6 well spent. The brussels sprouts with bacon were irresistable little nuggets of nutty vegetable flavored with smoky bacon and a nice over char. I had to fend off too many forks invading these; I wanted them all.

The crowning glory of the dinner, however, may just have been its finale. None of us needed dessert (I mean, honestly, to you ever need dessert?), but one look at the menu convinced my dad that there was one more course to be had. Bread pudding, when available, is strictly forbidden to be overlooked. After a slight delay (we were wondering if they were baking the bread to be baked into the pudding? Or perhaps grinding the flour?), it arrived like a pillow on a plate. An eggy, ethereal cloud of the tenderest brioche, with barely detectable cubes at one with the sweet custard. It spooned up more like a souffle than your average pudding, caramelized on top to a rich, golden brown and dusted with a flounce of powdered sugar. We requested it a la mode with a scoop of their house-made vanilla ice cream. If you blinked you might have missed this dessert entirely; it was gone as quickly as three spoons could navigate their way from plate to mouth and back.

The whole night unfolded under the watchful eye of the owner, Monique Siu, who circulates through the adjoined restaurants to ensure everything is going smoothly. She exudes a motherly calmness, and it was so nice to see her proudly at the helm of just a successful venture. She handpicked Lightener to oversee both restaurants, and it appears to be a match made in heaven. If my experience at the Cafe is an accurate indication of his talent (and I'm doubtless it is), I'm anxious for the opportunity to see what is happening next door, whatever the price.



1758 SE Hawthorne Blvd. corner of Poplar Street
Portland, Oregon 97214
503.231.9959

Diversion: PDX/LAURELHURST MARKET

"Keep Portland Weird!" is painted in huge, white block letters upon a brick wall across the street from the new Laurelhurst Market: new as in the old market of the same name was a bodega of sorts, of dubious legitimacy, purveying an even sketchier array of random commodities . But the Market in its current incarnation exhibits neither nefarious quality, now a restaurant of outstanding repute which also houses a small, locavore-esque butcher shop where you can purchase the meatier comestibles available on the restaurant's menu, as well as sandwiches (made with fresh, local Fleur de Lis bread) and beverages to eat in or take away. Despite the spare, industrial decor and exposed ceiling beams that arch across the dining room from the market to the bar, the interior is warm, rustic and inviting. Little twinkly votive candles and lights glowing off a collection of shiny pots and pans in the open kitchen create a convivial atmosphere. Just in front, chef David Kriefels keeps a hawk-eyed watch on each plate from mis to service, maintaining superlative quality control
certainly not exclusive solely to those beans (You know, the ones your mother would have made if she loved you, which is what is charmingly noted at the bottom of the menu). The no-reservations policy ubiquitous to Portland's casual dining scene fuels a steady crowd at the small bar, which boasts a nice little cast of cocktails and a very reasonably priced wine list, heavy on the reds. They even had a mourvedre (which I've been dying to try) by the glass: a plush, fruity little varietal from the centuries old grape that is enjoying a resurgence in popularity, and the one they poured here proves why.

Laurelhurst Market is primarily a steak house, but almost anything on the offer has such robust flavor that you won't miss meat even if you don't order it. A spa-sounding endive and grapefruit salad
with Dungeness and chervil flaunted those crisp, juicy leaves lavished with rich, sweet morsels of crab, brightened with citrus and nestled in a creamy, smooth puree of sunchokes. All those sprightly ingredients join forces to a decadent effect. We bumped a side dish of perfectly roasted beets with pistachios up to appetizer status, and while their strawberry gastrique was mostly undetectable but for a meager puddle hidden underneath, it did pair quite winsomely with the salad (though, admittedly, we should have left it in its side dish category where it would've performed more deftly. Note to self: obey the chef!).

The menu breaks mains down into steaks and entrees, the former including every-which-cut of bovinity imaginable, where you can choose your cut from the daily offerings which , although specified a la carte, arrive with thoughtful accoutrements. They are a little veggie-scant, though, which provides a tremendous opportunity to take advantage of the solid array of ridiculously good side dishes. I definitely could've made a superb repast simply with a tasting plate of three or four of them. The steak frites arrive with a mountain of exceptional hand cut fries, and I saw some enormous Walla Walla sweet onion rings crowning the ribeye at the next table. Neither of those, however, could have been appreciably better than the brussels sprouts, uber-roasted to an almost melting tenderness, charred crispy on the edges by no stinginess of heat and oil, although they were supposed to have been prepared with lemon, anchovy and piment d'espelette, which if they were was with a very subtle hand.

Entrees include more meat, a few poultries, and a daily fish, prepared with a few more creative liberties than the steaks, and put the emphasis on umami-rich ingredients like mushrooms, wine-based sauces, truffles, and rich reductions.
Tournedos of filet mignon, the most expensive dish on the menu at $36 (but well worth it!) justifies its price with a rich lobe of fois gras, scored and sprinkled with a crispy nest of delicate celeriac frites, surrounded by a moat of truffled sherry gastrique upon a creamy potato puree. As rich and regal as it might sound, it tasted even voluptuously more so, fancifully toeing the line of excess but remaining just a crispy frite's-width shy. Idaho rainbow troutshone as the daily catch, hearty enough to rival the meats: two generous skin-on filets splayed atop a savory-sweet puree of butternut squash, and roasted chunks of fennel, parsnips and apple… an absolute bargain for a mere $20.

Desserts are wholly unnecessary here, but equally unmissable. Most are classics or riffs thereof: an affogato uses a rich chocolate sorbet instead of vanilla gelato, a superlative tarte tatin is buttery beneath melting vanilla bean ice cream. A little homework, however, nudged us toward a dulce de leche cheesecake with jammy Oregon huckleberries, described by
some internet commentator (with whom I cannot argue) as "knee-buckling". The substantial crumby graham cracker crust cradles dense creamy cheesecake, caramelly sweet with a smooth milky tang. This dessert has been on the menu since the beginning, and our waitress assured us it isn't going anywhere (be thankful). Just as good was a dense bread pudding, rife with tangy dried cherries and crusty on the edges of its little individual ramekin, and topped with a sweet mascarpone cream, whipped into weightlessness.

I'm amazed they can consistently produce food this exceptional at such reasonable prices. As does a good sister restaurant, it vigorously inspires a visit to Simpatica Dining Hall upon my next return to Portland. If this is the city's version of weird, I'm all for it. I guess, like they say, you can't take the trailer out of the girl.





Laurelhurst Market
3155 E. Burnside, Portland OR 97214
restaurant 503-206-3097
butcher shop 503-206-3099

Bad Things Happen When You Break Your Own Rules

I'm supposed to follow my rule, which is to follow the chefs, but sometimes I get distracted. Of course, sometimes it is inevitable, like when my friend invited me to a restaurant re-opening that really was really better off shuttered. Planet 212 in Chelsea, who's room is disturbingly incongruous, with loud music and vacant servers, and such choice items on the menu as scallops with mushroom ravioli atop a heap of mashed potatoes (are the channeling "Big Night"?). It was just one bad dish worse than it's antecessor. The room is gaudy and poorly lit, revealing Christmas-light simulations of Siamese decor and offensively pink walls, as well as dark, shadowy nooks. The chairs are uncomfortable and the servers don't know what the hell is going on. (We had to ask the owner just to get the check, after five inquiries to various waiters came to no good end.) Plus, they skimped so much on the alcohol in their juicy-juice cocktails that you couldn't even achieve an improved perspective via beer goggles. Hopefully, their re-opening openness won't last long.

My next misstep ensued from being drawn in by The Smile. More aptly, it should be named The Yawn. If your mom in Nebraska cooked this well, you might be content. But in a restaurant, especially one in this city, you've got bigger britches to fill. The room is darling, mostly repurposed and salvaged furnishings, rustic wooden tables/floors/ceilings, and dried flowers and a homey hodgepodge of painting and bric-a-brac. But that's where all the fun ends. We began with a bright little salad of
shaved fennel, black radish, pomegranate and goat cheese, which was no better than a simple sum of it's parts- the radish was bitey but not particularly tempered by the crumbles of mediocre cheese, and the fennel wasn't particularly sweet (our waitress defended this explaining the end of its seasonality, which was also given as the reason that despite it being listed as a side dish, braised with preserved lemon, it was not available as such. She said it was a typo, but in that they did HAVE the fennel, it was a pretty lame excuse). Instead, we turned our attention to a side of roasted broccoli with garlic butter and brown sugar. My mind conjured up images of oven-charred florets roasted into nuttiness, sparked with a kick of garlic and the caramelized sweetness of brown sugar. Instead, what arrived was six steamed florets, cooked just to the point of optimum nutritiveness, I am sure- like how you cook it at home because you know that's what is best for you, but was in no way roasted, and not what I go out to eat. Furthermore, if there was any butter, garlic or brown sugar on those babies they were apportioned with a VERY stingy hand. I think on the first
spring I tasted a hint of garlic, and the last one might have been a teency bit sweet, but basically, it was six small sprigs of blanched broccoli, at about .95 a pop. I wish I could say the entrees we ordered bucked the trend, but instead, a small piece of overcooked haddock lurked inside an impressive envelope of parchment, and the mushrooms ... oh, make that mushroom (one single one... maybe two) were julienned to feign abundance, but instead ruining its texture and filching it of any flavor, like tepid soaked fungus. The spiced tomato sauce with the lamb meatballs was laudable, but the the meatballs could have been pretty much any ground protein, bereft of any distinct lambiness, or really much flavor whatsoever.

There are desserts to be had, but nothing that looked very inspired. A brownie with gelato, berries and cream, or an actually quite repugnant sounding Nutella and brie baguette. None of those sounded like they would encourage more of smile that we already weren't sporting, so we simply called it a night. And now I reiterate to myself to reason I follow chefs and not just whims... to leave The Smile without a smile is no happy feat, indeed.


PT212 30 W 24th St
Phone: (212) 727-7026


26 Bond StBtwn Lafayette St & Bowery
Phone: (646) 329-5836

The KINGSWOOD

Deviating from my typical modus operandus of following the chef, last night I destined my dining to Kingswood. For some inexplicable reason, it is one of those kind of sceney, trendy joint that I actually wanted to go to. I guess part of it has to do with that it is located on the same street where is my very first New York apartment, on West 10th. It also used to house a really excellent restaurant (Jefferson Grill) before its latest incarnation. Jefferson Grill was New American, and though Kingswood purports itself to be Aussie-influenced, I think some of its predecessor's influence survived the fire. Well, its latest incarnation after it burned down and then rebuilt. I never visited prior to its incineration, and with the burning hot summer reaching its climax, it seemed appropriate to do so now.
Walking past the glass front facade, the Kingswood is almost always bustling and lively, and great smells emanate from the hood vents. It's not categorically a chef-driven restaurant per se, but it kept calling me, so I figured it was worth a shot.
Packed house, as usual, and it pretty much just busier as the night progressed. We started with a seasonal special, a rather bountiful salad of asparagus, multi-hued cherry tomatoes and myriad little lettuces. Slightly overdressed, perhaps, but a pretty nice summer salad. Late dinner that it was, we split the starter and headed off to the main courses. Purportedly the "best mussels in the city" by a friend of my friend, we went for those first. Rich in a coconut curry with enough cilantro to carpet a small forest, these were, surprisingly, some really excellent mussels. Not a bad one in the bowl, each crustacean meaty and mild, tender and plump. The broth was spiked with jalapeno to add muscle to the mussels and cut any extraneous sweetness of the coconut. A return-worthy dish. My halibut, on the other hand, was solid, but not exceptionally memorable. Generous amount of fish, lightly sauteed, and bedded with a slightly Asian flavored melange of spinach and snow peas. Tasty, if a bit oily, but good enough. Good enough for a joint with a vibe, with lovely diners and lovelier staff, whom are all perfectly attentive if not particularly doting. The room is a bit raucous; the noise levels can compete with conversation, but it's all pretty much to be expected. Fashionably low-lit (and thus the abysmal photography), bare bulbs, plain votives and rustic wood tables constitute the decor. But in good company, of which I undoubtedly enjoyed, and good spirits (of both varieties), this is established little restaurant with tasty food. A destination for ambiance and experience, if not so much for brag-worthy cuisine. The food is good enough, though, that we stayed even for dessert: a slightly too gelatinized panna cotta with a sidekick of apricot coulis. It was sweet, and cool, but the apricot were strangely bland even as they are coming into their peak season. Two big almond biscotti came along for the ride, but I would've preferred a buttery shortbread or almond tuile... something with a little more pizzazz.
And I guess that's sort of the synopsis of the restaurant, where the energy and verve is more in the crowd and the space than on the plate, but neither seems to suffer much in each other's company, and the food actually seems to benefit. I come away from Kingswood kinda liking the place (perhaps it's a bit of that Aussie charm), and wouldn't even disfavor a repeat visit, were it to present itself.