How we are (no longer) hungry. Le Pigeon.

Fear not, burgeoning readership, we haven’t been going foodless this week. We’ve been spending a lot of time cooking and taking advantage of the bounty of local produce as best we can (with sometimes disastrous results, but that’s another story). Friday night, we went out to what just might be our new favorite restaurant in town. It was so good, in fact, that we hit it up again Sunday for brunch.

Le Pigeon, we just might be in love with you.

Le Pigeon is nestled along a stretch of East Burnside once reserved exclusively for strip clubs and homeless encampments. Though both still take up some real estate, a short stretch of blocks starting at the Doug Fir and extending west is turning into a nice little place to walk around.

The restaurant itself strikes an awesome balance between being really warm, but still on the edge of cool. Big wood tables seemingly rescued from some Reedie’s dining room, matched with real silver flatware and your grandmother’s dishes bring a great sense of comfort, while the tattooed coolies at the bar and a proud display of Miller High Life show you how much this is could turn into a hipster haven.

The food is good. Really good. On Friday, we were three again. To start, green salads perfectly dressed with buttermilk dressing, tomatoes and avocado. Crisp and light, everything a salad should be. Also, with due reverence to our foodie brethren in Chicago, a thick sliver-dollar slice of Fois Gras served with grilled challah and peach compote. I was skeptical about the eggy challah competing with the rich fois, but the puffy texture set it off just right. I couldn’t bear to bury the flavor of the fois with the peach compote, so I savored it all on its own. And sadly, no convincing could get noneifbysea to take a bite of the livery goodness. He has no idea what he’s missing.

NIBS got The Burger, a thick patty of Strawberry Mountain beef topped with grafton chedder, grilled and pickled onions and tangy iceberg slaw on a ciabatta bun. And on the side, for a little extra he just had to have some of the duck fat potatoes. DUCK FAT POTATOES. The burger gods were smiling, and Portland officially has a new contender stepping into the ring for best burger.

Also on the table, the Strawberry Mountain flat iron steak served on a tumble of spinach sautéed with currents and Le Pigeon’s own house-made bacon. Steak was a little cold, but tasted great. Oh, and bleu cheese fried butter. And duck fat potatoes. This chef knows his way around fat, believe you me. Our third ordered the namesake Squab with, you guessed it, duck fat potatoes and marrow crostini. Just stop it already.

So far, so amazing. But then, there was dessert. There really isn’t a point in describing each one in detail. They were all flawless, so I’ll let their menu descriptions speak for themselves:


Apricot cornbread with Maple ice cream and bacon.
Dark chocolate sea-salt tart with mint pesto.
Grilled peach with goat cheese ice cream.

These are the best and most inventive desserts I’ve ever had. Anywhere. Ever. There, said it. Amazing, brilliant even.

And if that wasn’t enough, there’s one more thing to add to the list of Le Pigeon’s good deeds: the service. For me, servers are either invisible or totally irritating. It’s really rare to come across someone who puts a face and a personality to the restaurant, and on Friday night, the service we had did just that. For a minute, I wondered if someone in our party knew our server from before. He was just that warm and personable. (On Sunday, when our service wasn’t as stellar, I turned to noneifbysea to whisper, “I miss Brian.”)

It’s great. Simply great. The only only only thing we’d want to change is to switch out the insipid stemless glassware they’re using for white wines. There’s little in life we curse more than the designer of the Riedel “O” glasses.

Everyone seems to fit in there. It’s fantastically comfortable, whether you’re grabbing a burger before a show down the street or showing off the best of Portland food to your parents visiting from out of town. It’s really that good. Le Pigeon, we’re fans.

• Food: Fantastic, inventive, perfectly executed, really exciting.
• Drinks: Winelist, per NIBS "short but interesting, worldly- france, italy spain." Seems the French name of the place threw him off.
• Atmosphere: Comfortable and warm, friendly, but with a cool vibe. Exclusive to no one.
• Strikes: stemless glassware. that's it.
• Tally: NIBS is claiming it, and I'm not sure why he gets to. I swear I brought it up first. n

Breakfast at Beaterville

After a nice Saturday morning bike ride, we were hungry. Along the way home we had tossed around grand ideas of cooking farm-fresh eggs, herb-roasted potatoes and diligently brewed coffee. But by the time we got in the door, sweating, the idea of turning on the oven for 45 minutes and waiting for all the elements to come together didn’t seem like a good time. So, we headed out to breakfast.

Noneifbysea had heard really good, though potentially unreliable things about the Beaterville Cafe. There might have been a mention of “best breakfast in Portland.” Neither of us are really up on the Portland breakfast joint scene to question if this was a gross overstatement or not. Hungry and adventurous, we headed out.

For a Saturday morning around 11:30, we were really glad to find there wasn’t a wait for a two-top. “Sit anywhere,” a waitress said, pushing two menus in our hands as she walked by. We wandered around to the three different rooms, nearly taking a tiny back table, then an oversized booth, ending up at a nice yellow formica kitchen table that was, well, just right.

Noneifbysea ordered up some coffee. A small orange juice for me. The juice was great, freshly squeezed, perfectly refreshing. Noneifbysea flagged down the waitress for some cream, and before he could call her over again, I handed him my spoon since he was without silver. I could see him mentally tallying ‘strikes’ as he’s often wont to do. The coffee was strong. Really strong. Like spoon standing up in the coffee chili-style commercial strong. NIBS wasn’t complaining.

Food-wise, I was feeling eggy. I opted for the De Soto omelet, as a scramble, minus tomatoes. Chedder, spinach, b-b-b-bacon. Biscuit on the side and well-done potatoes. Those calories I had worked off on the bike ride were going to be coming back to me in style! Noneifbysea went for a classic combo of an egg over medium, one pancake and a slice of bacon. Oh, and on the side? A biscuit with sausage gravy.

Omelet was really good, probably because I was so damn hungry. I wished the potatoes were a little more done, but it really wasn’t worth noting. I liked my biscuit, but having grown up in California, I readily admit that I don’t know much about biscuits. Noneifbysea wasn’t blown away by his. I’ll venture a guess that he wouldn’t order it again.

So, food was solid. Good. Breakfast food. Kinda hard to screw up. I had no complaints, and believe you me, I’m always looking to complain. The only thing that might give me pause is the service. We had to ask for a few more things (syrup, silver), but all in all, it was fine. It came to just $22 with tip. Pretty solid, and sure, all things equal, I think I could see us heading back.

All in all

• Food: good breakfast food. We’ll be back (unless cup and saucer opens up first)
• Drink: fresh-squeezed juice and strong coffee. NIBS had hopes of a Bloody Mary, but, alas, no liquor
• Atmosphere: Total Portland kitch, what with all the old car references and NoPo hipsters packed in every booth. What people imagine when they think of PDX breakfast places.
• Strikes: half a strike for service
• Tally: noneifbysea gets to claim it. Another good for him

Bluehour in conflict

Bluehour Happy Hour

It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, one brought on by a tough Friday morning at work. The kind of day that makes you start thinking about happy hour at 11 a.m. So, an email was sent to rally the troops- meet at bluehour at 1700 hours. We will partake in the drink specials and the affordable and consistently good happy hour foods. Friday was going to be redeemed.

But something happened on the way to happy hour. A little thing called lunch. Lunch at Henry’s 12th Street Tavern, where quite a few of our trusty soldiers, despite careful ordering, were to be crippled with stomachaches to last well into the afternoon. One by one, those enlisted went AWOL. The idea of indulging in more food, no matter how fantastic or reasonably priced, was simply unappealing.

In the end, just noneifbysea and I sat down to an outside table. I’m not a stranger to the bluehour happy hour. Once in awhile, I just crave the margherita pizza. $5 for a thin crust pizza painted with a sweet, tangy sauce, comforted by just enough cheese, sliced tomatoes, buttery whole roasted garlic cloves and fresh basil. It’s a gem, really. And often I find their daily special cocktails perfectly anticipate exactly how I’m feeling on any given day. It’s good stuff.

But on Friday, I wasn’t feeling it. Henry’s swiss and mushroom burger had done a number on me, and more cheese wasn’t in the picture. I ordered the Caesar salad. $6 for a dozen well-dressed leaves of romaine with a rough crackle of pepper and satisfyingly crunchy croutons. I was content. I ordered the special drink (name escapes me)- citrus vodka with strawberry, lime and kiwi. It was like an adult Snapple. Pretty damn tart, but still good.

Noneifbysea, however, didn’t fare so well. He ordered Kenny’s fries, a hefty and shiny pile of greasy potato badness. A terrible showing. Also, the Butcher Board left NIBS wanting more. Literally. A few paper-thin slices of prosciutto, coppa and speck laid out on a wooden board, punctuated with a round milky sphere of house-made mozzarella, for NIBS didn’t warrant the $5 bluehour was asking. Also, there was an assortment of olives that NIBS characteristically ignored. I’ve ordered the Butcher’s Board before and been pretty happy with it. A little bread and butter to go along, and I’m all set. A nice $5 snack.

To drink, noneifbysea went with the “best drink,” a mix of vodka, ginger syrup and ginger ale. I think. A little too sweet. Probably the syrup.

So, bluehour happy hour is a place in contention. I was happy, and I’ll go back. Even thinking about that pizza makes me want to send out another group email to meet me down there for crispy, cheesy goodness. And though yes, that evening wasn’t the best food I’ve had there, I know the potential it holds. For noneifbysea, not so much. Too much money spent for too little. The tally for this one is split, but this is one place we will be revisiting, for certain.

All in all:

• Food: I know the food is good. It is. We're going to get that pizza, and I'll show you.
• Drinks: Cocktails good. Happy hour deals really good.
• Atmosphere: It is what it is. Pearl district in all its glory. I don't mind it. Reminds me of L.A.
• Strikes: Oh, NIBS'll argue that everything was strike-worthy. Hence "in conflict"
• Tally: We're split on this one. There will be a rematch.

Wednesday night dinner

We’ve been spending a good deal of time and money at fine dining establishments lately, and (as evident by our Balvo experience), been coming up short both in terms of food quality and in balancing the ol’ checkbook. So, in order to support our eating habits, we’re making a concerted effort to cook more at home. Because, god damn, we can cook! And besides, there’s too much good produce going to waste in our respective fridges. This can’t go on.

Wednesday night we decided to finally make good on our pledge. We had a whole host of assorted tomatoes from a neighbor’s garden, and set to work making a quick pasta sauce involving bacon and rosemary (taken from this month’s Cook’s Illustrated). Lavendersoda, having brought home the (thick-cut, applewood-smoked) bacon (from Viande), cut it into ½” strips and fired up the sauté pan. At the same time, noneifbysea began the process of sorting, peeling, coring and seeding the tomatoes. Just a scant two tomatoes in before we realized there was a problem. We weren’t going to have enough, and really, they just weren’t good.

So, lavandersoda, with bacon cooking in the pan and pasta water nearing a boil, acted quickly and smartly. Carbonara! A moderately skeptical Noneifbysea was sent to the market for parmeasan (how there was none in the fridge, I’ll never know), and soda added some white wine to the bacon and let it simmer out for a few minutes. In the meantime, two eggs were beaten with two cloves of market-fresh purple garlic and the pasta cooked. Once NIBS returned, the cheese was grated and beaten in, the pasta drained and returned to the pot, the egg mixture quickly stirred in. Toss in the bacon (with fat and reduced wine) and serve!!

While the pasta frenzy was in full effect, noneifbysea raided the fridge and pantry for some salad dressing making materials. A little Dijon, some FINI balsamic, olive oil and we were nearly there. Lavendersoda drizzled in a little walnut oil and we were ready to go. Organic red-leaf lettuce was never so happily dressed.

The final menu:
Fettucinne carbonara
Simple green salad
Baguette with goat cheese
Bordeaux (details to come)

We went low-key for dessert. Noneifbysea broke into a bag of Trader Joe’s Gingeroos! he picked up on the parmesean run. Lavendersoda savored her favorite chocolate treat- Scharffenberger Nibby Bar.

All in all, food was good! Damn good! Needless to say, lavendersoda was pretty proud of herself, what with the quick thinking and skillful steering of a meal once headed on a course for disaster (or at least to the pizza place up the street). And, as noneifbysea pointed out, this simple meal made our Balvo experience that much more offensive, that we could do something this good ourselves for 1/40th of the price. It should be a lesson.

Le Bistro Montage

For reals.

Everything seemed somehow backwards. It started with lunch. What should have been the best pastrami sandwich to be found in the city on a Saturday turned out to be pretty damn disappointing. The details are irrelevant, really, but with expectations that had been set (justifiably) high and then so quickly dashed, we ended up leaving the restaurant unsettled.

Something was off, down was up and vice versa. Our best instincts seemed misguided, so instead of fighting the changing tide, we went with it. Which is why at 9:00 on a Saturday night, we chose to go to what should be the worst meal possible for dinner.

We went to Montage.

Our experiences with Montage had been parallel, though off-set by a few years. For both of us, it had been a place to go when you wanted to go out and have a pretty good meal, probably the best you could get on a student/struggling budget. It was a go-to nice night out. Linen napkins, rock-star atmosphere, and enough food to take with you to live on for a couple more meals. But as salaries and tastes mature, so Montage loses its luster. What once was passable becomes unpalatable and it isn’t worth the wait, the noise, or the surly service. Neither of us had been in years.

While waiting for a table behind a gaggle of high-school kids, we took a look at the new Le Merde lounge. It actually looks like a cool place. Industrial chic with a drop-tin ceiling over the bar and a huge, blown up ‘no minors’ sign on the wall serving as art with a definite purpose. Keep the damn kids out. Drink menu looks good, and their site reveals a bar menu we didn’t see, with new, Southern-leaning bites like gator rolls, deep fried pickles and crawfish or corn cakes with a chili-lime aioli. For $5.95 for a ‘4 item bento,’ we’ll be back. Probably on Thursdays for trivia night.

So, right. Dinner. It started off not-so-hot. Bread and butter that weren’t too good, but, well did the job. It staved off burgeoning hunger pangs, but was nothing to write home about. So we won’t. Also, it’s very possible we’ve been spoiled by the great-bread trend sweeping this city. So when a loaf comes by that’s dry, sour and only made edible by copious amounts of butter, we start getting all snobby about it.

To drink? lavendersoda took on a glass of the Joseph Drouhin LaForet Pinot Noir ’03 while noneifbysea wussed out with the safe bet of a Rainer. Wouldn’t even pour it in a glass. The wine was fine (but to all you oeniphiles out there, I assure you it wasn’t up to noneifbysea’s taste. When he doesn’t venture to even offer one adjective, it’s probably crap). A little warm, sure but good to go with dinner.

On to the main course. We both went with old stand-bys: Tomato basil pesto mac and green basil pesto mac with chicken. A side of cornbread to share. With the first bite of the pesto mac, I dropped my hand that was instinctively reaching for the salt shaker. It was good! I mean, not really, amazingly good, but still good. Satisfying and creamy, good basil flavor. The chicken was tender and nearly plentiful, the pasta a tad over-cooked, but I had expected so much worse. The tomato-basil pesto mac had a good strong tomato flavor (the used of a sun-dried tomato paste was strongly suspected), but solidly tasty. The only glaring problem was that both dishes were blanketed with a cheap, gritty parmesan that stuck in your teeth but was easily pushed to the side of the plate. Here, in these two dishes, Montage had become what we always believed it had been: a cool place to go for inexpensive food that’s tasty and satisfying and ultimately makes for a nice night out.

While our generous leftovers were being furled into tin-foil sculptures (two intertwining tulips which I soon fashioned into scorpions) we considered pushing our luck into a dessert course. Good thing we did. The Mississippi Mud Pie, a Montage standard, was awesome. Dark cookie crust, chocolate ice cream and a whole mess of whipped cream and chocolate syrup. Fuck yeah!

Dinner started as it began- on a slightly down note. Like the crappy bread brought to us, the coffee was undrinkable. Burnt, over-extracted. And again, it just might be the proliferation of damn good coffee around town that’s upped the ante a bit. But really, to be able to walk out of Montage and the only complaints are about the coffee and bread? Who would have thought?

All in all:

• Food: pretty good. Really.
• Drink: one hell of a wine list, a bar that boasts fresh-squeezed juices, and a trio of hipster beers.
• Atmosphere: Loud as ever. And if you’re over 25, you’re bound to feel old. Deal with it.
• Strikes: crappy bread, worse coffee.
• Tally: add one to the good list for lavendarsoda