I just spent three rocking days in Portland visiting a high school buddy; her nickname of youth was Starvin' Marvin and we ate down P-town as if we had to make up for lost time.
First stop right off the airplane was The Farm Cafe (10 SE 7th Ave.) which bills itself as Pacific NW cuisine, seafood, organic, farmer-direct produce, wine list, cocktails. The exterior is unassuming, an old farmhouse converted into a cozy, candlelit, and delightfully unpretentious get-up. They don't take reservations so we loitered, quite underfoot, for a few minutes. The bar and the front door are on top of each other and little space remains between the bar and the dining room. But the servers seem fine with the set-up and don't look bummed to be asking you to move every minute or two. The spot was noticeably first-datey; lots of new couples leaning in close, made easier by the small tables. I warmed up with a tasty cocktail called GIN-ger. Gin and muddled ginger among other subtle flavors, lovely. We ordered a few small plates: a cheese ball (great name for a delicious...well...ball of cheese) cream cheese and fresh herbs and seasoning served on a plate with toasted bread; the hummus plate with warm pita triangles, olives, pepperoncinis, roasted red peppers and spring mix. The hummus plate was great but definitely left garlic weeping from every orifice. Lastly was the roasted mushrooms. Tasty in their bath of olive oil, garlic, herbs, the warm little buttons were served up with more of the toasty bread. We had the good fortune of noticing that the chocolate souffle was made to order and would need extra prep time. We ordered that with the rest of the dishes and by the time it arrived almost debated it's necessity, though ultimately it was the right move. Chocolate souffle is about as close as it gets to heaven on earth. The fudgey molten center supported a gently melting scoop of coffee ice cream. In it's simplicity, it left nothing to be desired, except a more expandable stomach which would have allowed us to finish it.
Notable meal two was actually wine and dessert at Marvin's restaurant, 23 Hoyt. I promised her I would eat dinner and review it but ultimately opted out-- it's been quite a long run of restaurant food and I believe my taste buds are getting a little foggy from all the butter and salt. But I will say this: without knowing anything about their more savory entrees, it is worth stopping here to have a Spanish Coffee. Sue behind the bar makes a devilishly good one. It was the first of three I had over the weekend and certainly the best. We also had the pear caramel strudel whose presentation was well-conceived: a three tiered phyllo tower, with pears in small dice style making up two of the layers and the bottom grounded by a thick slice of caramel custard. A balsamic reduction speckled the plate's edge and a scoop of vanilla ice cream rounded out the whole dish. It felt like a tribute to winter; it was soul warming. Lastly, we palette cleansed with a piece of chocolate cherry cake. I'm not the biggest chocolate and cherries fan but in so far as the flavors are concerned, they did a good job. It was a monstrous piece of cake, and there was an armour of robust ganache cloaking the whole thing. The chocolate cake was not too dense and bits of cherries were peppered throughout. I like cake, I liked this.
Notable meal three was brunch at Tin Shed. I have to hand it to these folks for flexibility. They offer substitutions for meat with both vegan and veggie options and you can get egg whites or tofu at no additional charge. Gracias. I wish I could just post their menu online but alas, no way, no how. I was impressed that they had a coconut and rice porridge. In my book that qualifies as a down-right inspired item. I almost ordered it but then got distracted by Sweet Chix. I rolled with egg whites and veggie sausage and then the listed brie, green apple, basil, onion, and bell pepper. It was served with a choice of potato cakes or cheese grits and a biscuit. What a nice way to start a day a day that ultimately involved wine tasting in the Willamette Valley.
Wine Tasting in the Willamette Valley:
I mean it's no Napa Valley, and that's what makes it great. It was Monday which maybe isn't the optimal tasting day in the dead of winter but it worked out. We made two different stops that spanned the spectrum of what the valley had to offer. The first was Archery Summit which is a strictly Pinot Noir house. The wine was good. They use all new oak so the tannins are apparent. It's not the most fruit forward wine but definitely a good lesson in the range of Pinots. (Like this? Look at me pretending I know anything about wine...) Second was Winter Hill, a corrugated tin two car garage converted into a cozy tasting room. Their operation smacked of family: juice conceived in love and a little table loaded with all kinds of local specialties- hazelnuts (awesome) praline fudge (eh) and Pinot Gris jelly w/ horseradish (absolutely flooring-- particularly at $2 a jar.) We ended up buying two bottles, a Pinot Noir and Muscat, that we drank sitting out in the sun overlooking the beautiful valley bathed in white winter's light. Their Muscat was particularly noteworthy, bright but not as sweet as the nose implied. I bought a bottle to bring back, quite a steal at $12, but the bastards at the baggage counter told me I couldn't check it. It needed to be in a manufacturer's box blah blah blah. I'm sure that's just the airline people's hustle to bring nice bottles home to their significant others.
All in all, food and otherwise, it was a good time. Marvin, thanks for hosting. P-town thanks for the nice weather.
Showing posts with label Pinot Noir. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Pinot Noir. Show all posts
Citrone All Alone
Things have been on the up and up since earlier in the week's salad debacle. So much so that I actually thought the Inland Empire was in a position to redeem itself tonight. This morning I learned that only five minutes away, in the town of Redlands, there was a "cute" street with a "decent" restaurant. Usually on Thursday nights we all head back to the Bay Area, I'm flying to Ohio tomorrow and couldn't get a flight from here until the morning. Since I was rolling solo for the evening, I figured, I've been here almost two months and complained continuously, tonight would be the night that I gave this place a second chance.
Citrone is on the 300 block of Orange Street. One of the two main veins of the historic section of downtown Redlands. The dining room was warm and only about half full at 8:00. I took a cursory glance at the menu before committing with an understated "table for one, please." Expecting to be lead to a two-top lining the back wall, I was surprised to be seated at a table for four, adjacent to the long open kitchen which was brightly lit and where two chefs appeared surprisingly inactive. The service staff was attentive and noticeably all male. Not in a Steps of Rome, Italian ex-frat boy sort of way, just in a coincidental "we have no women that work here" sort of way. I was tempted to ask about the intentionality of it, but didn't.
My server presented me with the menu, the wine list, and an oversized round of warm focaccia accompanied by a dish of olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dipping. The menu was printed on a double sided single sheet. It lumped together starters and salads, moved to a collection of pastas, and rounded out its backside with several typical entrees: pork loin, lamb chops, Atlantic salmon. The wine list was far lengthier; the crescendo being three pages of Pinot Noir. It came with a disclaimer from the waiter, "all the wines on the list are by the bottle, I can tell you what's by the half bottle and glass." But he didn't and walked away. I opted for the Paul Hobbs Pinot Noir and informed the waiter on his return "Oh, we don't have that by the glass, sorry. But we do have Carmel Road, I promise you won't be disappointed. Want me to pour you a taste?" It actually wasn't disappointing so I let him pour me a glass. I decided to start with the Citrone Salad described as orange, grapefruit, avocado, and currents in a spicy-honey dressing. I waffled with the entree choices, almost getting roped into a roasted eggplant penne. Eventually I narrowed it down to two options. The Citrone Stack: grilled eggplant, roasted red peppers, mushrooms, potato, buffalo mozzarella presented in a tower and drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Or an appetizer size of dungeness crab cakes with papaya-mango salsa. I deferred to the waiter and was advised that the Stack was "big and wouldn't keep overnight." He underestimated my eating abilities, that much was clear, but I took it as a vote of confidence for the crab cakes.
I glanced around the dining room. The brick walls and track lighting were gentle on the eyes. The room was decorated with frames containing enlarged wine labels. The one outlier was the large poster that every girl has in her freshman dorm room from that series of vintage Italian liquors. It depicted two boisterous tux-clad waiters carting bunches of grapes and had the word "Union" emblazoned under their feet. The open kitchen was framed by frosted glass with the word Citrone etched in. It was back lit by an aqua glow. The decor made me nostalgic for Palo Alto during the Dot Com era.
My salad arrived. It was dressed liberally and the flavor smacked more of mustard than spice. One edge of the plate held a heap of currants scattered about two hearty rounds of citrus. The salad was good, not great, but certainly took all BJ's salad excuses to the mat. My crab cakes came. The papaya-mango salsa was heavy to the lime and red onions but a nice addition to the two cakes and the small pile of greens on the plate. The cakes were large with a dark brown exterior that implied they might be a bit crispy on the outside. Alas, alas. The exterior was not dissimilar from the mushy interior and the whole mass, inside and out, was the same color. The flavor was mediocre and I really couldn't get passed the textural disappointment. I worked my way through some of it, finished my wine and sat back. The patrons were like the crab cakes, all between the ages of 32 and 40, middle weight, mediocre looking. I'm not really sure what I was expecting.
The waiter brought over the dessert tray. There was a lot going on: peanut butter cake with a graham cracker crust, sponge cake with a white wine sauce and mocha frosting, an eye-pleasing ricotta fruit tart, cheesecake, tiramisu, other things that were forgettable. Ultimately I opted out.
It was a good try. For a second, I forgot I was just a few hundred yards from I-10 East. For a second I was really pleased with the prospect of crab cakes. And the wine was legitimately good. It's Redlands, not San Francisco. I should keep things in perspective; they tried their best. But when the best is priced like San Francisco yet just doesn't come close to comparing, it's hard not to resent it. Ultimately it was more like a throwback to my college days, when my food standards were lower and the bricks of the British Bankers Club made me feel at home. It was a definite upgrade from nightly usual but I don't believe I'll be going back any time soon.
Citrone is on the 300 block of Orange Street. One of the two main veins of the historic section of downtown Redlands. The dining room was warm and only about half full at 8:00. I took a cursory glance at the menu before committing with an understated "table for one, please." Expecting to be lead to a two-top lining the back wall, I was surprised to be seated at a table for four, adjacent to the long open kitchen which was brightly lit and where two chefs appeared surprisingly inactive. The service staff was attentive and noticeably all male. Not in a Steps of Rome, Italian ex-frat boy sort of way, just in a coincidental "we have no women that work here" sort of way. I was tempted to ask about the intentionality of it, but didn't.
My server presented me with the menu, the wine list, and an oversized round of warm focaccia accompanied by a dish of olive oil and balsamic vinegar for dipping. The menu was printed on a double sided single sheet. It lumped together starters and salads, moved to a collection of pastas, and rounded out its backside with several typical entrees: pork loin, lamb chops, Atlantic salmon. The wine list was far lengthier; the crescendo being three pages of Pinot Noir. It came with a disclaimer from the waiter, "all the wines on the list are by the bottle, I can tell you what's by the half bottle and glass." But he didn't and walked away. I opted for the Paul Hobbs Pinot Noir and informed the waiter on his return "Oh, we don't have that by the glass, sorry. But we do have Carmel Road, I promise you won't be disappointed. Want me to pour you a taste?" It actually wasn't disappointing so I let him pour me a glass. I decided to start with the Citrone Salad described as orange, grapefruit, avocado, and currents in a spicy-honey dressing. I waffled with the entree choices, almost getting roped into a roasted eggplant penne. Eventually I narrowed it down to two options. The Citrone Stack: grilled eggplant, roasted red peppers, mushrooms, potato, buffalo mozzarella presented in a tower and drizzled with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. Or an appetizer size of dungeness crab cakes with papaya-mango salsa. I deferred to the waiter and was advised that the Stack was "big and wouldn't keep overnight." He underestimated my eating abilities, that much was clear, but I took it as a vote of confidence for the crab cakes.
I glanced around the dining room. The brick walls and track lighting were gentle on the eyes. The room was decorated with frames containing enlarged wine labels. The one outlier was the large poster that every girl has in her freshman dorm room from that series of vintage Italian liquors. It depicted two boisterous tux-clad waiters carting bunches of grapes and had the word "Union" emblazoned under their feet. The open kitchen was framed by frosted glass with the word Citrone etched in. It was back lit by an aqua glow. The decor made me nostalgic for Palo Alto during the Dot Com era.
My salad arrived. It was dressed liberally and the flavor smacked more of mustard than spice. One edge of the plate held a heap of currants scattered about two hearty rounds of citrus. The salad was good, not great, but certainly took all BJ's salad excuses to the mat. My crab cakes came. The papaya-mango salsa was heavy to the lime and red onions but a nice addition to the two cakes and the small pile of greens on the plate. The cakes were large with a dark brown exterior that implied they might be a bit crispy on the outside. Alas, alas. The exterior was not dissimilar from the mushy interior and the whole mass, inside and out, was the same color. The flavor was mediocre and I really couldn't get passed the textural disappointment. I worked my way through some of it, finished my wine and sat back. The patrons were like the crab cakes, all between the ages of 32 and 40, middle weight, mediocre looking. I'm not really sure what I was expecting.
The waiter brought over the dessert tray. There was a lot going on: peanut butter cake with a graham cracker crust, sponge cake with a white wine sauce and mocha frosting, an eye-pleasing ricotta fruit tart, cheesecake, tiramisu, other things that were forgettable. Ultimately I opted out.
It was a good try. For a second, I forgot I was just a few hundred yards from I-10 East. For a second I was really pleased with the prospect of crab cakes. And the wine was legitimately good. It's Redlands, not San Francisco. I should keep things in perspective; they tried their best. But when the best is priced like San Francisco yet just doesn't come close to comparing, it's hard not to resent it. Ultimately it was more like a throwback to my college days, when my food standards were lower and the bricks of the British Bankers Club made me feel at home. It was a definite upgrade from nightly usual but I don't believe I'll be going back any time soon.
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