If You Only Had One Day In Portland Oregon...

you'd better take Salty along

Salty has gone a travelin' again. Finally you say--after the weekend reports from Rome, sojourns along the Portuguese coast, rompings through the French countryside on fifteen euro rail tickets, missed trains in Prague, Christmas markets in Munich, Sunday nights in Paris poker parlors...yes life in Spokane appears rather Amish in comparison. But as we claim our umpteenth life goal to be the publication of The Salty Cod Travel Guide to the World (the masses will cry: Rick Steves who?! exactly) we decided that a discovery was past due. But perhaps there are those who might say that the cities of America are no match to the romantic odysseys of Europe. Perhaps yes, and so--too bad for you. But we at the Salty Cod hold the premise that if we have not been there, then it is travel. It is adventure. And whether it be five thousand miles away, or a mere three hundred, if I have not been there, then I am a foreigner. Oregonians are in fact a breed unto their own. Portland, Oregon a city gilded green and bursting with a hidden character that defiles that sleepy tree-hugging stereotype of the porklander. Would you like to see? I thought so. On y va shall we.

And what if you did only have one day in the City of Roses, what then? Who can see a city in twenty four hours. Well, let Salty help you. You could visit the famous rose gardens on the hill, take a hot chocolate and artisan truffle at an internationally acclaimed chocolaterie, browse the shelves of the largest independent book store in the world, stop by a grungy Bourdain-approved hole in the wall for possessed donuts literally unlike any other, stroll along the yuppy bohemian chic shop-walk of 23rd avenue, climb atop the tallest hill and seize in one single sweeping glance a panorama of the five tallest peaks in the Pacific Northwest, sit down to lunch at a family owned gluten free house of fish and chips, get your gas pumped by a window tapping attendant, and, if there's time--try to catch a Blazers game. All in a good day's work.

Located on the yuppity shopping avenue of 23rd, the Moonstruck Chocolate Cafe is a gourmet stop for anyone desirous of sampling international award winning chocolate confections. Portland born and kept, there are presently five chocolate cafes found throughout Oregon, but are retailed in myriad gourmet food shops around the world. Perhaps you overheard Oprah Winfrey raving about them, or read their review in the New York Times or the Boston Herald, or caught a glimpse of their Food Finds coverage on the Food Network. Would it surprise you to learn that Moonstruck truffles are stuffed into the goodie bags of the Academy Awards and given to guests on the Ellen DeGeneres Show? Well it shouldn't. This is Portland we're talking about after all. Why, as the best truffles in America, they should be given the Lincoln Bedroom at the White House. Oh wait, they have.

For the sake of report, my private guide and I felt it our duty to sample a few of the glittering chocolates instead of merely smearing the protective glass with out cold-reddened face. A couple steaming hot cups of peppermint dark chocolate mocha coffees were in order as well. The lemon cream dark chocolate ganached turkey shaped truffle was amazingly smooth, and the striped eggnog boules were fantastic beyond lexical explanation. Salty's favorite of course was dark chocolate and cointreau. However, the most popular sellers are the champagne, Bailey's Irish Cream, French Silk Chocolate Mousse, and Clear Creek Pear Brandy truffles. Oh la la.

It would be advantageous to hire a personal escort around the city--a true Portlander who knows where to go, and where to avoid, and preferably one with a car, but if you cannot--well there are buses, and a bus you will need indeed if you are to climb Council Crest, Portland's highest point reaching 1,073 feet (327 meters) above sea level. Though once at the top, you will stop cursing me for my sending you up there; the sight is breathless (literally, the icy gust makes it quite difficult to breath...mouthfuls of wind for lunch...) and any and all effort put in will be rewarded instantly. In one glance the four tallest peaks in the Cascade Range of the Pacific Northwest are devoured; from left to right Mt. St. Helens, hiding behind her the peaking wink of Mt. Rainier, to whose right lies Mt. Adams, followed by Mt. Hood. Nothing, nothing found in Portland compares to the view of these snow capped giants. Award them a moment of attention, there will be felt no regret.

Following an existential mountain viewing, one's appetite is ravenous--and as the Pacific Northwest is known stereotypically for their quality (and quantity) of seafood, why not search out a bit of...cod. The Corbett Fish house, the only completely gluten free fish house (that I know of) in existence. Not a drop of gluten passes the threshold of the family owned pub-style neighborhood fish house--even down to the beer selection. Located off the beaten tourist track at 5901 SW Corbett street, tucked in between doll-like houses, the Corbett fish house offers a variety of sea critters fried in a rice flour batter to crispy perfection. Alaskan halibut, yellow perch from the Great Lakes, oysters from Willapa Bay, Pacific caught cod, and Florida prawns all find their way into the fryers of the Corbett clan. Gluten free beer, gluten free cheesecakes and pies; it seems that the majority of Portland is on the gluten free track--whether fad or for real, it's a-o.k. with us.

The next stop after lunch is for desert (well not for the gluten-free-ers, perhaps just dessert for the eyes then) at a donut shop of celebrity status--visited by the man himself Anthony Bourdain. Voodoo Donuts, I have been waiting two years to come here! I squeal to my guide and housemate, S, the Portland native by whom everything in the trip was made possible. You never cease to amaze me, she laughs, as why would one who cannot even eat the product be thrilled beyond chills and peppermint pills at the chance just to visit the Podunk hole-in-the-wall. The answer, of which she is quite savvy of, is simply, well Anthony went there!

When I say hole-in-the-wall, I mean hole in the wall. The walk along the front entrance is strewn with trash cans and dumpsters, a has-been (and questionable content) theatre to the left, and a grungy tobacco shop to the right. Excellent. It is quite evident why Tony would visit. Upon entry the crowded eclectic interior assaults ones senses with a lot of...pink, but on quick recovery of the feng-shui assault, the eyes are pulled to the rotating cupboard of famous classics--the voodoo doll: chocolate covered dough created in the image of man filled with a blood-red cherry jam and stabbed with pretzel knives in angry revenge, the captain crunch donut, the bubblegum blue, the Oreo and peanut butter concoction dubbed the old dirty bastard, the fruit looper, and of course--Bourdain's favorite, the maple bacon bar with a real slice of fried bacon on top. Did we buy a pink box? Yes. But to whom did they find guttural sanctuary in? Well, I had to provide something when I arrived for thanksgiving now didn't I.

Perhaps a bit of exercise is due after all of those donuts, if meandering is what you lust for, try it indoors, at Powell's Books, the world's largest independently owned book store. Large here means large. The store is divided into color coded sections, the Ikea of books, yes your child could get lost inside, and for that matter you could get lost inside. Spawned now into six Portland metropolitan locations, the shelves of Powell's stack thousands upon thousands of books--new, used, and rare, and has become one of the most successful dot-com book retailers. The cooking section, my friends, spans nearly 5 distinct aisles, with shelves that reach higher than one could even expect a ladder to reach. Powell's is a fortress, and for the book enthusiast, or even simply the maze enthusiast, is a critical stop on a Portland expedition.

Along with all of that, perhaps a stroll along the river, a crossing of one of the myriad bridges, a visit to the rose gardens (Portland is the city of Roses) a promenade along the chic shopping alleys--and maybe, if there's time, a Portland Trail Blazers game. That would be a basketball game (NBA) for yee the non-Americans out there. But all in all this is just one pinch of Portland; underneath her labels of tree hugging, chai-tea sipping, hippy tattooed alternatives, lies so much more, a more that really can only be described by the word variety. Oh and the yellow and green you ask? Well Portland is a city divided by a brutal civil war--it is called the University of Oregon Ducks versus the Oregon State Beavers. You must choose a side, and it is not pretty, let me tell you...but Portland, Porkland is. If you happen to visit her someday, take me with you.

As usual nothing is possible without your friends: Thank you S for everything! And a special thanks to G for the first rate Portland hospitality!

à bientôt

The Restaurant & The Sandwich Shop

Le Fournil de Versailles and Le Laurier
When, in the near future, you are standing on a long winding boulevard in Paris, eyes glued to the map searching for a real place to eat, elbows of passing cattle (tourists) jabbing into your sides, and restaurant hawkers assaulting you at every turn with their English language menus--take a breath, and stop fooling around! Pull out your Salty Cod Travel Guide jammed into the bottom of your Felix bag and get your arses to the best (biased yet correct) restaurant and sandwicherie in the big city of lights. If you do venture forth to Paris, and have the gall to visit neither of these establishments, we will first dub you the fool, and second disown you from our hearts and minds for a great deal of time. On y va.

There are places where we eat, then there are places where we eat. Any human with the ability to sit up and chew knows that while taste is the number one ingredient of a good dining experience, it is not the only one. Presentation and ambiance play crucial roles in determining whether a meal was good, great, or enlightening (if the food itself falls under the level of "good" then there is nothing a setting and scene can do to recoup their failure.) What then do you have when the food is not only undeniably fantastic, but the ambiance and setting are so friendly and welcoming it feels as if one is dining with family--well, you never have to fear the dreaded "eating alone," for your friends are already there.

Abdel, the master boulanger on the premises of Le Fournil de Versailles, runs a team of three others along with his wife who often appears alongside him at the baguette counter in the evening hours after her workday hours are complete. Le Fournil de Versailles, at first glance is just the seemingly "average" corner boulangerie and midday lunch hub for the nearby schools and local business workers, but on closer inspection and trial, one discovers this place to be truly owned and operated by the most genuinely friendly people one could ever expect to find on the planet. Why? Well, this is not a tourist district. The interior (and exterior) is nothing special, nothing glamorous, nothing to make you sigh "oh très jolie!" this is one of those situations where the lunch time line snaking out the door speaks for itself.

Le Fournil offers breakfast to dinner baguette service, baked fresh right there (you can see the ovens) along with the fare of any standard boulangerie; croissants, tarts, cookies, cakes, meringues, macaroons, etc. At lunch time, on the other side of the round-about counter is a lunch window full of crisp fresh baguette sandwiches, hot paninis, quiche, and salads available alongside a dessert and beverage for emporter (takeout) or sur place (seated at one of the tables, the window bar, or outside at one of the terrace tables). A good deal too--do not expect to pay more than 7euros for the whole meal. 7, yes that is what I said.

Me--I have been eating a salad for lunch at this corner shop 2 to 3, to sometimes 4 times a week. It is less than a minutes walk down the street from me, and a second home. If you are a friend of mine in Paris, you have eaten there. If you have visited me in Paris, you have eaten there. Even Flo and C, my little French children, have enjoyed a few lunches seated at the tables inside Fournil. Though it took a while to convince Abdel and the others that I wasn't the only person in the world who didn't eat wheat, and after many questionable looks and comments of "oh American diets" the usual slowly became "salut mallory my little flea (sounds better in French), what salad today, poulet ou thon?" The chicken and the tuna salad are my particular favorites, though ham and salmon are also available.

Nicoise olives, hardboiled eggs, cheese, and tomatoes have been my midday companions--though I never take the sauce--Abdel here is my secret I never would tell you: take it home, add 21 haricots verts, salt, balsalmic vinaigre, anise seeds, and two crushed bay leaves. That is what I do to your salads. Though they are darling on their own none the less. For dessert--who chould shed a tear over missing the apple crumble, pain au chocolat, and brownie when there is fromage blanc; a sour yogurt style cheese taken naturel, with strawberry jam, or a bit of creme de marrons. All that is then missing is the perrier.

Going to Fournil de Versailles? Tell them you have a very good friend who recommended you to them--then casually drop my name, and report back to me. Avoid 12h30 if you can--before noon and after 1h00 will give you more room to breath and more attention. French is always smiled upon if you try--but fear not here the use of your English, you will be welcomed and quite well understood. And don't cut and run afterwards, stick around for a cafe, and then perhaps a walk to the Roland Garros, or the Greenhouse of Auteuil, or perhaps the bois de boulogne. See what the southern 16th has to offer.

metro line 10 Eglise d'Auteul--take left metro exit and walk straight down rue Chardon Lagache, turn left at rue Jouvenet and continue straight until Ave de Versailles, it is on the corner. Or line 9 Exelmans--take boulevard Exelmans direction toward the Seine, turn left onto Ave de Versailles, and continue straight until 136 on the left hand side.

Din din time. Stay clear of the Champs Elysees, and get the hell out of montmartre. Where am I sending you? Where few tourists have gone before--but oh how they will have wished they had. The 14th--south of Montparnasse. Never thought you would make it south of that big boy did ya. Make your way down the charming, diverse, more "oh this is where normal people live" part of Paris to the little restaurant on the corner, Le Laurier. Laurier means bay leaf, and it is fitting, for this small restaurant of traditional French cuisine is so god-awfully gifted in the usage of spices and flavors that I can not imagine ever eating French style cooking without making a form of comparison in my mind. This place had the goods. You want French? You belong here. You want real waiters that don't wear berets and suspenders? You belong here. You want an ambiance and quiet charm fancy yet laid back and as French as it can get? You belong here.

As with Fournil de Versailles, I am a frequent visitor of Le Laurier; 1 to 2 times per week. As with Fournil, if you are a friend of mine in Paris you have either dined there or we became friends there. As with Fournil, the waiters and chefs have become some of my greatest friends in Paris, a Parisian family if you will, after hours as well. I grew to love the Laurier team-- weekend picnics and sunday night poker parties, the Parisian philosophy on food has taught me a great deal about food, and foods place in life and culture. Life is around the table, whether they are seated next to you or running around like mad men--if you don't eat with people you love and care about around, why bother eating at all.

I have had everything on the menu at least once. And it changes with the season. C'est vrai. Except many of the desserts. Those I have just observed. There are a few permanent residents of the menu--the classic gouts that never change; the tartar du boeuf which is in the end my favorite main plate, served with seasoned potatoes and a delicately dressed salad. The duck--always excellent. Fillet mignon, scallops with fois gras, steak, lamb, roasted chicken--and of course there is always the daily special. The salads are impeccable as well; the salad Laurier comprises of shrimp, mango, avocado, and a plethora of flavors and sauce all above a bed of fresh maché, there is the antipasta, and the smoked salmon salad which is moreover smoked salmon and sautéed potatoes accompanied by a few leaves of lettuce.

The entrees--fluffy and light terrine of blue cheese over a tomato red sauce, fois gras, mozzarela and tomato salad, tuna tartar, pumpkin soup with craw fish, and my particular favorite--pureed lentil soup with a creme sauce topped by a drizzle of raspberry syrup.

Desert--hands down the creme brulée is my recommendation, three small rounds of variant flavored cremes sometimes a chocolate, or a berry, or a nut, depending on the season--caramelized to that near blackish and crackling state of perfection. The nougat glacée, the rice pudding melded with a caramel sauce (a bit Portuguese do you not agree?) and of course there is the ever changing tare du jour.

Laurier is a bar à vin, and as such i have had much, much from its store. Glass, carafe, bottle--they boast an impressive stock, and it is there where I have indeed found my favorite flavor. The boys can also offer a classy aperitif if you desire--a cocktail bien sûr, and Antoine, I must say, mixes quite a nice caipirinha, a result from his joyous travels abroad. However, I will say, and I do boast this with pride, I was the first customer at Le Laurier, to ever ask for one--the virgin bottle of cachaça retrieved from the cellar and opened just for me. What can I say. Just, what can I say.

when to go? any day of the week except sunday, lunch or diner. Dinner after 8h00 is best, but remember there is no special on saturday. Metro line 13 Pernety, exit metro and walk straight forward down rue Pernety until the end, Le Laurier is on the left hand corner.

What is so outstandingly brilliant about these two places that I would send you trekking west and south all around the city just for a meal--what you ask. So what if you are friends with the baker and the waiters--so what, perhaps his bread is as good as any of the hundreds of others that line the Parisian streets, so what. Well, so plenty. These establishments are dear to me, I recommend them with a heart to do you good. When I return to Paris, I will eat no where else before I have sat down at these tables again. Getting there is half of the adventure, find the other pockets in the city, get out of the line at the Louvre, your photo at the Eiffel Tower is lovely, but that crepe you ate on the Champs was pre-cooked. What you will remember in ten years is the 3 hour meal you ate in a charming restaurant you went on a treasure hunt to find, surrounded by laughing locals, sleeping dogs, and friendly, charming, and high-on-life waiters. You will remember how you could not stop pouring the wine, and that though there were three courses, you felt satisfied but never full. You will remember the meal. Everyone remembers the meal. And by remembering the meal, you remember the people, and you remember Paris. I will miss my friends dearly, thank you for your friendship, we will meet again soon, ça, c'est sûr.

à bientôt

C'est Vrai! -- It's the Hilton in Paris!

The regal meal in Paris I've been waiting for What would you do if every cocktail on the menu was a 10euro minimum, the entrées list for no less than 15 euro each, the main plats abound environ 35 to 40 euros a pop, a 3 course wine rainbow that no, you cannot find at the supermarché, bottled water with the restaurants own name on it, waiters that pour the water and bring you unordered appetizers--what would you do? Cut and run? Hopefully. What would I do? Bring it! this one is on the house! You see--I am a very important food writer and restaurant critic, I am called in all over the city and begged to come and dine in 5 stars every week for free just as Anthony is, they say to me, we would have thought of calling Monsieur Bourdain, but when we heard you were available...

Get your head out of the clouds. But then how did you? How did? Easy. Get to know a chef.

Perhaps, moreover hopefully, some of you remember months back my invitation as "photographer" to a friends big culinary school graduation final dinner. Non? pas grave, you can go there now. The post was Vive Le Mexique--the story of culinary student g-mo, a friend and (obviously) fellow foodie who studied culinary arts earlier in the year at Institut Universitaire de Formation des Maîtres de l' académie de Versailles after culinary school in Mexico, and has since held an intern position in the kitchen at the Hilton Arc de Triomphe Hotel. Chouette. It all makes sense now eh?

Finishing his internship this upcoming week, g-mo as an employee was invited to dine in the restaurant where he had never eaten, never even been into the dining room of--all in the accompaniment of a little friend. And therefore when we the doomed singles of the culinary world (note: I say we, not that this wanna-be is claiming to be a chef, not at all, but food writers and side-line bakers manage to weasel their way into the cooks class. if they try hard enough) cannot enjoy a romantic dinner setting, well, romantically--we turn to the next best thing (better even?) a fellow foodie. That is where I enter. Let's lock and load.

Meeting up for dinner at 7, we sit in the the hotel's front patio, what i call the "cocktail terrace." It is nice to have the bar tender know you--by default he knows who i'm with so I get the glow too--as well as the waiters and waitresses. I order a Rose, because well, I'm a wine-o. Fantastique! is all I have to say after my customary pallet of under 10euro bottles from Nicholas'. The Safran restaurant at the Hilton is a somewhat under-cover (French style) of Asian fusion--pretty much they attempt to incorporate saffron into every dish, but they do try to put a little "international" twist on things.

The waitress, in bright floral "tropical" dress returns to offer more drinks, "our special cocktail tonight is a caiperina," she urges, "and you can choose what fruit flavor you would like--and even hand select the berries." Caiperina? How did she know my favorite cocktail. I'll have the red berries please madame. Sitting on the cocktail terrace we discussed "the biz" like i was a part of it for nearly two hours. And I take biographical notes like a reporter. Caipirinas drained, and hunger rising, we snake our way through the restaurant and out onto the central dinner patio adorned in crisp white linens, shade umbrellas, ice buckets of chilled champaign, and a lovely lady playing a colossal blue harp. chouette!

The waiter comes--hey man! (hand clap shake, thing, only the French equivalent) and hands us the menu. Now, as the very proud and hot headed person I am, I never let anyone order for me. I know what I like, and what do you know of it? But, if you happen to be eating with someone who intimately knows most of the dishes, sauces, plate, cremes that come tearing out of the kitchen door--order what they tell you to order. The recommendation: the duck. Cooked in red wine, turnip, and pear reduction. Ok, sold. For entree our waiter recommends for my "fondness of fish" the salmon in a sweet cream sauce. The wine--the man appeared double time as sommelier--French white for entree to fuse well with the fish, and for main an Argentinian red. Argentinian red? I questioned him, Argentinian? You don't want Argentine wine? he asks, well, I start as I search my head for why an automatic 'oh come on Argentina?' response would ever pop into my head...no it's not that--for some reason I feel, hey well don't you have anything French? This one is the best to go with your duck. Argentinian wine it is then monsieur!

The salmon was impeccable rubbed in the sweet creme sauce. Atop the creme, you will notice, is a long thin tuille sprinkled with chili powder, a recent addition to the dish since the employment of a certain new intern, bravo! that's his tuille! his tuille, a lasting impression that after one "experiment dish" was sent out--the rest were asking for it. I will tell you now that g-mo's passion is not exactly a station master in a kitchen--but rather the pastry arts.

The duck was cooked perfectly. Everything was cooked perfectly--despite both tables unhappiness with it to our right and our left, ungrateful snobbish americans and brits whose extensive knowledge on the matters of the culinary arts sent lectures of "this is how its done" with the belittled waiter back into the kitchen. "My steak should arrive with the rest, i don't care if i was the only one with an appetizer, that's how i want it, not three minutes after everyone else, take it back i want nothing!" listening to my country men blundering around me in english, disrespecting not only the wait staff, the food, but also the chef, is enough for me to want to get up and strangle the fat bastard. Do you know how hard they are working back there!

And then to your right you have "my son doesn't like sugar. Bring him a juice without sugar" and "This is not how sole is cooked, let me tell you how this fish should be cooked, I am a bleeding expert." Witnessing such embarrassment only makes one feel even more patriotic for the kitchen staff. The nerve! the nerve! I whisper in French, as we discuss how the customer has no say on how fish, chicken, and pork dishes are cooked--beef is your only say. So shut your mouth you carp! But nothing can be done--the customer is always right, and that beautiful piece of perfectly cooked fish is sent back and tossed, so Sir Winston can have a piece of boiled rubber. The waiter may grind his teeth and send curses and plagues on the schmuck and his family after work hours--but during them, during them is to bow, to apologize, and to please. People are people, and in the end--all that should matter to me is that I severely enjoyed the meal.

The meal ended with the new summer desesrt menu--and hands down what was chosen (by both of us) was the coconut milk and mango creme brulee. That is an intenational flavor fusion which sends me to bed happy as a clam. When everything was cleared and lo and behold where did the last 4 and a half hours go! we thank the waiter, and ask if I can go into the kitchen. The kitchen. Eh, oui, but no photos---put that thing away. Yes sir. A meal is not complete unless you venture back to see from whence it came! And was it complete? Yes. It was excellent. I recommend anyone not on a budget dine there.

Restaurant reviews are a tricky thing to grasp. Who cares about what someone thinks eh? I used to think so myself. However, I find myself more often than not in a restaurant analyzing everything, from the size of the room, the type of diners seated around me, the estimated heads per night, the envisioned goings on in the kitchen, what is the chefs favorite thing on the menu to produce, the correlation between prices and how good i can actually expect this fish to taste, the waiters attitude toward their connection with the establishment, do i have a knife and a fork, and after the meal, after all of this i can then say if I had a good experience or not, and if I would take you there. That's all that matters, would I take you there. That is a restaurant review.

To say it plain, I am very honored by my friend to have been invited to such an evening as someone who understands food life. It is quite the compliment, and finally a reassurance. While perhaps, to some well-off readers out there who are used to dining in upscale black-tie joints this one may appear slightly too casual--but for me, for me it was a little magic. Thank you friend. And we here at the Salty Cod wish your culinary career every possible success, to your own restaurant, and your dream of travel and becoming a grand pâtissier! Wherever it may be, know that the Salty Cod Bakery will always be a sister pâtisserie to yours.

à bientôt