Sticks and Scones

My scifi addled childhood has left me with romantic notions about ramen.  Some part of me wants to stand on a rain soaked, nighttime street, neon light reflecting in the puddles on the asphalt, slurping noodles while the runoff from the awning above drips into my bowl.  It’s an image that has become inescapable – from the Bebop to the Straylight, I dream of electric sheep.

In truth, the grey, intermittent as it’s been, has started to get to me. Which doesn’t bode well for actual winter. The steady drizzle drove us along the sidewalk, looking for a warm hole to climb into. Enter Biwa.

It was nearly empty when we went in for lunch – one guy sitting at the bar, a couple chatting quietly in a corner. The steady bass thump from the stereo. The clatter of pans from the kitchen. It’s a friendly, warm spot – comfortable in it’s clutter.

My dining companion went for the bento box. The resounding silence from opposite the table likely representative of appreciation. I went for the gyoza and a bowl of ramen. The dumplings are excellent – full of pork and shrimp, savory and delicious.

The ramen isn’t fancy. Other folks talk about spending days on their shoyu or tonkotsu broths, layering and chilling and clarifying. Which is not to deny the competence of this dish – someone had clearly put some thought into the process. But it was simple – broth and noodles, pork belly, soft boiled egg, green onions. Simple and entirely satisfying.

I’d bet there’s better soup our there somewhere. You should have this too. Apparently it’s super cheap sometimes.

Biwa Restaurant – Share Your Kitchen Secrets!

In belated recognition of Reformation Day (Halloween to all you deviant Papists out there) and to celebrate the successful completion of a long underground toil, my dining companion and I retired to The People’s Pig in order to salve our souls from the continuing affronts to Mr. Luther’s Glorious Revolution.

And these folks are on the right track. The smokers outside gave off the intoxicating aromas of wood smoke and sizzling animal fat. The building looks like it’s seconds from collapsing into a heap. These are folks who’ve learned that barbecue comes from a joint, not a restaurant. If it all feels a little contrived, well, its because they’re striving for authenticity in a place that is a relative newcomer to the magic of smoke and pigs. Everybody’s got to start somewhere.

And now that I’ve given someone the benefit of the doubt, here comes the fun.

The food is good. Not great, not bad. Just good. I had sliced pork shoulder, as I was feeling morally strong. It’s not a cut that generally makes the barbecue rounds – pulled being the traditional thing – and it was okay. Good smoke ring development, moist and tender, but under-seasoned. Serving size was good though. They ain’t cheaping out there anyway. The also put it on a salad, to which I say “fuck off”. There is no room for unstewed vegetables in barbecue.

The sauce was….meh. A syrupy concoction designed to convey cumin into your face. A little vinegar, a little sweet, but didn’t seem to be going anywhere. Just the one flavor which when applied to meat roflstomped over anything else it had going on.

My dining companion had smoked tri-tip, since they didn’t have brisket – an experience that seemed to mirror my pork: good, but under seasoned. Also, what kind of barbecue joint doesn’t have brisket? Its not like cows are hard to lay hold of. You’re not sending boats out across the Pacific to cast their nets into the black abyss, praying for a good catch and to see their families again. It’s just at the other end of the cow, mate. Don’t tell me you’ll have some in on Sunday like the magical meat fairy is going to bring you some because you’ve been a good little boy.

The sides were varied – Collards were very good, tender without being overcooked, though they could have used a bit of vinegar. Cole slaw was bloody awful, cabbage and celery seed swimming in a mayonnaise broth. The highlight of the sides was the cornbread w/ cane syrup. This is like mama fixed it. Get the cornbread.

Still, it was good. I think there’s some socialism involved in there somewhere. Apparently they’re opening one on Burnside at some indeterminate point in the future. Probably around the time they have brisket.

http://www.peoplespig.com/

 

You know what’s a great idea? Hitting up a pizza buffet for lunch on Friday. Because nothing says I’m a professional like desperately trying to stay awake through an afternoon of meetings. Also fuck you if you schedule things on Friday afternoon. And fuck me, ’cause I scheduled things on Friday afternoon.

For all my refined, cosmopolitan tastes, I’m no stranger to a buffet. Golden Corral (which always struck me as a fairly cynical name for an all-you-can-eat place), Cici’s Pizza, Sizzler; I’m game for all of them. I’m a professional fat kid, after all.

Izzy’s hit exactly the right note – pan pizza was crispy on the bottom, savory sauce, good variety of toppings. I went for the meat and olive variety; my dining companion, an avowed sexual deviant and pariah his homeland, opted for pineapple. Portland may strive to be a tolerant place to live, but some people just take things too far.

They also have a ton of other stuff – fried chicken (tasty), Ribs (v. sweet), some really good looking mac and cheese, plus a bunch of things I can’t remember but were probably pretty good. They also have a salad bar, though if you’re going that route you’re never going to get your money’s worth out of a buffet. You gotta go with the big ticket protean, then pack it down with some carbs. Professional fat kid.

They’ve also got resoundingly mediocre chocolate pudding, which is one of my shameful favorite foods. It reminds me of elementary school cafeteria lunches- there was a kid in my fourth grade class who would smash tomatoes on his head. Doesn’t really have anything to do with pudding, but I’ve basically run out of folksy anecdotes to write about pizza.

It’s a pizza buffet – there’s a lot of it, it’s pretty good, and it wasn’t super expensive.  Do with that what you will.

http://izzyspizza.com/

The Bar Nude is a curious thing. On one hand, the traditional naked lady reclining above the bar is essentially the 19th century version of the pin-up girl.  On the other, nearly everyone painted one at some point – Manet had his Olympia, Goya his Maja (though she’s still got her frock on). It’s like icon painting for Impressionists. But frankly, any time you put men in proximity to alcohol, they’re going to want to see some tits.

The Baldwin Saloon has four – not directly over the bar, unobtrusively hanging in high corners, because this is a family place now. They, like the landscapes that nearly wall paper the rest of the restaurant, were created in exchange for paying off an overdue bar tab. An elegant solution from a more civilized age.

The cooks at the Baldwin have mastered the two necessary requirements to satisfy the middle American palate: gigantic quantities and the liberal application of fats, salt, and garlic.

Stuffed Mushrooms – Great whopping things stuffed with artichokes and garlic, topped with a fuckton of mozzarella. For all that these had obviously spent some time under the broiler, they managed to escape getting cooked. Fortunately, raw mushrooms and cheese are still pretty tasty.

Calamari Dijonnaise – The Great Cephalapod Jihad aside, this one was a little confused: the “sauteed” squid was pretty obviously the same stuff they were frying, evidenced by the breading. Still, it was garlic and squid in a mustard cream sauce. It’s not like we didn’t eat the whole fucking thing.

Seafood Bouillabaisse – Everything about this was fucking baller. Briny, tomatoey goodness. This one is a hard recommend. Good bread too.

Smoked Salmon and Baby Shrimp Fettuccine – This one’s tough. Cured anything can be a tough flavor to balance and while someone had made a valiant effort with some cream and cheese, this mostly just came off as salty.

The food’s good, the restaurant’s pretty, the staff have obviously been encouraged to turn tables quickly. Eat yer dinner quick.

http://baldwinsaloon.com/

Atherosclerosis be damned, I love me some fried chicken.

Cider Mill/Fryer Tuck is right up my alley – dark, quiet, showing games from teams that nobody in the restaurant supports. It also helps that it was close by since it was pissing down the day we went.

I have no idea what marks the distinction between the Cider Mill and Fryer Tuck – it seems like you can get whatever you want in either part of the restaurant.  They do old school pressure fried chicken, like KFC used to do before they sold out to Big Chicken. Those fuckers ruin everything. They also do burgers and sandwiches, but why are you coming here for that?

The three piece dark meat snack box was my weapon of choice – The chicken is super juicy,  but a little under seasoned. This is definitely a “food for white people” joint. The potatoes were breaded and fried the same way – creamy interior, but not super crispy outside – and served with a dipping sauce I can’t remember. It’s probably ranch. Most things are.

We also split the livers/gizzards/hearts plate. I definitely recommend it if you’re a fan of indistinguishable fried , chewy meat nuggets and ranch dressing. I certainly am. We were warned that it was going to be a lot of food. It was. And it was everything I wanted it to be.

We came for the pun. Turns out the chicken is pretty good too.

http://www.fryertuckportlandfriedchicken.com/

All I’m saying is, while it might be illegal to stab someone in a German restaurant, there’s not a jury in the world that would have convicted you. Certainly would have improved my evening.

Stammtisch immediately endeared itself to me for two reasons – 1. it’s exactly what it says it is. You could drop it wholesale into any German town and no one would think “Here’s the Yanks having a bit of fun at our expense”. There’s no pretense, no pretending. Just the thing itself.

And 2: Liter steins. This is God’s preferred glassware, given to Buddha on Mt. Vesuvius. They fit perfectly in my hand (I’m not a giant, but it is nice to have the occasional “it comes in pints?” moment). It’s liter of beer – always a happy thing.

And they have some damn fine brews on. I don’t generally drink imported beer, on account of us making really good beer in the States, but man, there are few things like a glass of someone’s Oktoberfest early in fall, just as the chill starts to set in. Turns a young lady’s mind to dirndls and braids and cleavage and no mistake.

Condensing the menu choices from several visits (seriously) yields:

Bretzel w/ actual goddamn schmaltz. I know Jews were banned from Oregon till like the 70’s or something, but thanks for letting them in eventually.

Obatzda – warm cheese, paprika, and damn good bread. Important for helping sop up all the beer.

Frites w/ curry ketchup – a fan favorite from the late night menu. Widely agreed to be the same thing we’d had in the Fatherland.

Sauerbraten – slow cooked pork, cabbage, and spatzle. This is one of my favorite things. I like this more than I like people. I would elope to a tropical island and open a beer garden under the palm trees with this dish.

Forelle – This tastes like the best parts of fall. Braised trout, roasted squash. Ye Gods.

If I lived near by I would be so fat.

http://www.stammtischpdx.com/

 

I’ll admit – a hotel restaurant is never going to be my happy place.  They always feel artificial – stylized and work-shopped within an inch of their dull, plastic lives. Devoid the attention to detail that marks true quality, they substitute a patina of “hip” and, in a turn of honesty, “swank” in order to fool the masses into thinking they’re enjoying an “upscale” restaurant, rather than them having acknowledge that they’re getting hammered and hoping to pick up a tipsy sales rep in a tarted up Olive Garden.

Yeah, I used to travel for work. What?

And so, I found my self parked in a booth trying to figure out what I was going to cram in my face before we went for my yearly dose of culture. And it was genuinely a difficult decision; exactly nothing on the menu is interesting. It’s the “Best of Paul McCartney and Wings” collection of safe, hipster food. Nothing is going to challenge or entice – like a truck-stop gloryhole, you’re going to satiate a biological need. Nothing more.

Starters were some ridiculously overpriced cheese (seriously, $9 is a fuckin’ stretch for maybe an ounce of rotten animal lactation. This particular goat tried it’s best, but the blueberry sauce ran it over completely) and the baby gem salad with light dressing – which apparently directs some poor, beaten kitchen drudge to trowel the inside of the bowl with it. You could grout a kitchen with that shit. There was also tortellini, which was remarkable only in it’s resemblance to strip mall wonton soup – super thick pasta, very little filling, floating in broth.

Mains:

The duck which, despite the well coiffed warning about pinkness from my server, turned up well done. Sides were unremarkable – diced vegetable medley in a pan sauce.

Chicken – I’ll cop to it – I didn’t try this one. My dining companion said it was good. It looked like chicken. He ate all of it.

Mussels – These were a highlight of the meal. Big, briny, and sweet. Complemented well with the leeks and some really good bread, which they hid during the cheese fiasco. Seriously, you’ve got some profit margin to up your bread game there.

Sides:

The best part of the meal was the corn parfait. Straight up. Good sweet corn, a little heat, and only mild embarrassment of having to eat it out of a tumbler. If you’re eating here, definitely get the corn.

Charred beets – what it says on the tin.

I was starting to rethink the snark of this review round about the chicken paragraph, but fuck them – they’ve obviously thrown a ton of money at this mediocre monstrosity. It’s fine to be all “we’re going to be hip and industrial” but at least WALL OFF THE FUCKING AIR CONDITIONER SO PEOPLE CAN HEAR EACH OTHER HOW ELSE WILL I GET LAID I”M NOT THAT PRETTY.

It’s food.

http://www.swankandswine.com/dinner/

Did you ever wonder how we, as a species, figured out things were poisonous? Some poor Cro-magnon, staggering across the veldt, searching for food, only to find that the vegetable they’d so desperately sought made their mouth burn like hell and caused them to poop themselves to death.

Turns out someone’s using it as a wing sauce.

I’m old and, in my weary wandering, have learned a few humbling facts: 1. Short of surgery, my nipples will never again look toward the sun and 2. I shouldn’t eat the spiciest wings on the menu. Fortunately, that doesn’t extend to my dining companion, who plowed through six of the El Jefe wings with reckless abandon. And, I do mean reckless, because about halfway through, he got the shakes and was sweating like a nun in a cucumber field. There’s a challenge where you have to eat 15 in three minutes – comes out to 12 seconds a wing. He made it exactly 12 seconds before tapping out.

The rest of the wings we tried were also excellent – lime & cilantro, lemon pepper, sweet BBQ. Apparently the fries are really good as well. We’ll try them the next time me and ol’ Rocket Bottom Johnson are looking for wings.

http://www.portlandwings.com/

 

 

Where do you go when your in-laws want Mexican food? A place that apparently hasn’t been a Mexican restaurant for like ten years.

Momo Sushi is the Lake Oswego’s American Style Sushi entry into Portland food scene. There’s the stuff you’d expect – there’s a ton of rolls on the menu, reflecting the Taco Bell model of food production/ pick a handful of products and put them in every conceivable combination because some fat-ass will eat it if you put enough cheese in it. Plenty of things from the hot side – teriyaki, tempura.

There’s also some weird shit – One of my in-laws, desperate for their Mexican food fix, got a burger and chicken wings. Both were declared tasty. They also offer a ten ounce New York Strip. I mean, since you’ve got the grill going anyway, why not?

Still, the food is genuinely good. The Poke Donburi was excellent – fresh and spicy, authentic as anything I’ve had back east – and the rice was excellent. So too was the Yakiniku Donburi, the leftovers of which I had for lunch the next day. The salads were fresh and well dressed. They also do ramen and soba, which  was reported to have been good, through very salty, but stood up to being both take out and lunch twelve hours later.

They also have a full bar, which is helpful for ignoring the teenage boy loudly trying to impress his date with how much he can drink. Slow yer roll little fella, she can only get so hard.

Momo Sushi is the worst Mexican restaurant I’ve ever been too. You should try it when you’re out that way.

http://momosushigrill.com/