In an effort to appease my poor vitamin D deficient soul, most-persistent dining companion and I, along with the wee sprog, decided to fuck off down the coast. Astoria to California over a few days. Maybe see some fucking daylight for a change.
And it doesn’t disappoint, does the Oregon coast. I’m not used to folks putting topography in such close proximity to the ocean, but I could definitely see it catching on. Y’all are on to something there.
We turned up round about lunchtime to find out that the only thing on offer were the fish tacos – no oysters. Because the boat hadn’t come in yet. My agrarian upbringing didn’t always include such cosmopolitan fare, but I’m pretty sure “you can’t have it, because they haven’t been picked yet” is a damn good marker for freshness.
Rockfish Tacos – were fucking delicious. From a tiny, two burner induction set-up, our hostess cranked out grilled fish and a fantastic cabbage slaw. Befitting her Northern European roots, they were spot on spicy; the creamy dressing just taking the edge off. If you’re ever in Garibaldi, you’ve got to stop in for them.
We were the only folks in the restaurant (apparently locals check the tide tables), but we were immediately made to feel at home. As fantastic as the food was, our hostess made the meal. In turn warm, attentive, kind, and welcoming. I know I’m trying to cultivate a crusty persona, but this was genuinely one of the best meals I’ve had in years. Not fucking around.
You should eat here, if only to reward a genuinely wonderful human being.