Vindalho (2038 SE Clinton Street)

My friends and I started a restaurant group where we try a new restaurant once a month and Vindalho was our first excursion. We had 14 people attend! I called Vindalho ahead of time and they set up two long tables for us upstairs, in a semi-private dining area. The restaurant is beautiful on the inside and I knew I was in for a big treat once I met the waiter. "Oh - you're with Elizabeth? Great! The party's just getting started!" We went upstairs and met up with our friends.

Once we were all there, the waiter went around and told us the specials. We asked him questions about the menu and he said things like "Oh that is spot on. So delicious." and "I've been here since the beginning and I know you will LOVE this." He was definitely passionate about the food. And we were wondering. Does he have another job? Or does he make his living as a waiter at Vindalho. Because I think he could. He should get lots of really big tips because he loves the food, he sells it, and he says "spot on" on a regular basis.

We started off with some fritters that were part of the special. Now if I can just remember what the rest of the food is:

I had the Tandoori Beef, which was tender and spicy and the onion rings that came with it were almost curried. It was very good.

Now I'm just going to be honest and say that I have no idea what these other dishes are, but aren't they beautiful? The colors are so amazing and it goes perfectly with the spice route cuisine theme going on at Vindalho.

Our waiter was constantly servicing our table with all of his spot-ons and water filling and then he offered (on his own - without any asking from us) to split the check for us 14 ways! That is unusual. Actually, it's almost unheard of! I had asked everyone to bring cash so that it wouldn't be an issue, but the waiter said that it would be no trouble.

Oh and I almost forgot! They have lovely ginger lemonade.

When you go to Vindalho (I know you will!) you should wear beige and have an empty stomach to provide a nice backdrop for the visual and culinary feast that you will eat. If you don't have a camera, snap a picture with your mind. A beautiful meal should be remembered forever!

Thanks for the pictures, Rich!

Now Appearing at...

In case you can't get enough, my reviews can now be found at PortlandRealEstate.com. Check it out!

Greek Cusina (404 SW Washington)

Over the past 7 or 8 years, I've visited Greek Cusina on a number of occasions. Two company parties, weekly karaoke, blind date and just recently, went there for dinner just because.

Our waitress was imported fresh from California, orange skin, bleach blonde hair, scratchy voice. She kept talking about how busy she was. "Oh my God, there are so many people at the tables outside. I'm like whoa." Then she talked about how they might dine and dash. "Sorry, I'll be back in a minute. There's this totally big table outside that I'm scared they might leave without paying. That's what they like to do - sit on the very edge and then leave without paying. Especially with the Brewer's Festival going on." This is the second experience I've had with a waitress telling me about diners who dash. And that establishment is only a block away from Greek Cusina. I wonder if it's the neighborhood?

The food - sucks. The steak strips I ordered were mealy and mushy. The mushrooms marinated in something yellow were not good. The brie was questionable. I have never realized how bad the food is, because I am usually distracted by trying to avoid the ouzo tasting, breaking plates, watching someone make a fool of themselves while singing their guts out and being jealous of them, my stomach being in knots because I don't know the person I am on a date with. But this time, it was just dinner. It was plain and simple and disgusting.

Definitely not worth the time or the money. Skip it. Unless you are going to break some plates and drink a lot of ouzo. There's no karaoke anymore - a big loss to the karaoke community. That was seriously some good fun.

Bushwackers (8200 SW Tonka, Tualatin)

Eating alone is a familiar experience for me. I exercised my nerves deliberately years ago when I moved to Portland and wanted to go out to eat, but didn't know anyone to invite. So I braved it alone. And now I am pretty good at it.

The place that I practiced the most at was Bushwackers, in Tualatin. I worked up the street and Bushwackers provided a dark, smoky respite where I could hide from the intensity of payroll and customer service for an hour in the middle of the day and eat whatever I wanted without anyone knowing.

At first I went there once a week, then twice a week, then several times a week. Terri was always my waitress and after only a couple of weeks, she would see me walk in the door at 11:30 and bring me a diet Coke before I even had a chance to think about it. I could read a book or do my homework, just barely in the dimly lit dance hall. And often I attempted it. But truthfully, I really just liked to people watch.

There was one man who liked to dance, even when he was the only one on the dance floor in the middle of the day. Then there was Mr. Smokes. He came in every day for lunch with his wife and adult son and the three of them ate their lunch, smoking, chatting and coughing. One time I went in and there was a woman with her child sitting at the bar, even though there are plenty of signs saying no minors allowed at any time. Immediately my head went to that terrible Reese Witherspoon movie Sweet Home Alabama, where she sees her friend and says "Oh! You have a baby. In a bar." The best line of the movie.

Anyway, the thing about Terri. She could almost always guess what I was going to order. I went in phases. First it was the chili dog, which was a huge beef hot dog, smothered with hearty chili (from a can, I'm sure) and cheese and onions. Then they discontinued that and I went into the chili burger phase. For a while, Terri would just bring me the chili burger, without me even ordering it. Which was nice. But when I realized that I might die from chili burger poisioning (a.k.a. a heart attack), I started ordering food that I imagined was more healthy - like the tuna melt. That was a long phase, too and not really that healthy. Then I had the chinese salad. A bit too sweet for me. Then there was the BLT. Probably my best choice.

"How ya doing, hon?" Terri always said. And sometimes when she asked me what I wanted, I would say, "It's been a bad day. Give me a chili burger." She would wink and say, "with cheese and onions, right?" Like somehow that little extra cheese and onions was going to fix me right up. Maybe it wasn't the cheese and onions. Maybe it was her smile, her wink, her calling me hon that fixed me right up.

At Christmas time, I always meant to bring her cookies or bread or some type of confection to acknowledge that she was the best damn waitress I ever had. But I never did. It's been a while since I've been back to Bushwackers and I don't work in Tualatin anymore, so it will be a while longer, I imagine.

But Terri, if you're reading - you are the best damn waitress I ever had.

Eating Alone and Getting Married

Check out my two food writing finds this week:

1. Erin Ergenbright of Portland, wrote this essay which is included in the new anthology Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant, and I loved it. Also included in this anthology is my favorite spaghetti story. There is something amazing about the experience of eating alone. Sometimes I love it. Sometimes not so much. I can't wait to get this book and take it with me the next time I go to a restaurant by myself.

2. This post by Molly at Orangette, who is about to get married and who made pickles and cakes for her wedding. I think that's lovely. I think this post makes me tear up every time I read it. I love it.

All hail to the expert food writers.

The Cornish Fair (Cornish, NH)

Occasionally I am thrown back to my sweet cloudy satisfaction of childhood and the experiences that formed me. It happened most recently when my phone rang this past Sunday morning. Two voices rang out as they half laughing shouted that they were representing the Cornish Elementary School reunion of the class of 198something.

As I talked with Heather and Sharon (the only two classmates to reunite this year) and we caught up on each others' lives, I kept having little flashbacks of my pre-teen/early teen years in Cornish.

We lived in this great little town, where artists made their beginnings back in who knows when. Where supposedly JD Salinger lived. Where Michael Dorris and Louise Erdrich were our neighbors. And rumor had it that Tom Selleck had a house near by and so did Charles Bronson. And although my parents were always going on and on about the historical significance of our town, I didn't really care.

I cared that I could swear in the right context (I practiced over and over until it sounded good) so that I could use it when my classmates teased me for being a goody two shoes. I cared that my friends thought it was cool when I said I was going to sue my parents (can't remember what for!) I cared that my mom drove us to school in the special ed bus that she drove, a source of endless mocking. I cared to fit in. That's really all I cared about.

(Picture: My Cornish Elementary School 8th Grade Graduation trip (I was visiting from Washington) to an amusement park in Massachusetts somewhere. Sharon and Heather are on either ends of the back row and I am smack dab in the middle. Perms used to be so cool!)

But then I remember that Cornish is where I won second place in the adult division at the Cornish Fair for my dinner rolls when I was 12. My first inkling of confidence in the kitchen began here. Cornish is where my 7th grade teacher, Mrs. Little, told me that I should keep writing because it was a gift from God. Cornish is where my teenage angst was born and thrived - and where my determination to do what I want to do was born.

During a road trip in 2000 I stopped in Cornish to go to the Fair and replenish my memories. The Cornish Fair is much like the other country fairs in New England, I imagine. But this one smelled like home when I walked the fairgrounds, like cows and fresh air and corn on the cob and the field behind our old house where we had so many adventures.

The Cornish Fair is coming up again in a few weeks. I won't be there this year, but Heather says that next year's elementary school reunion will be around fair time and is going to be a big one. I can't wait. If you live nearby, you should check it out. (The fair, not the reunion.) Buy an ear of corn on the cob for me, k?

Blueplate (308 SW Washington Street)

I am moving up in the world. I now have a couple of friends with really cool cameras with actual food settings. Clearly, they trump my camera phone. Exciting for me, because they are willing to help a food blogger out occasionally.

So Blueplate. I have heard about this place for a couple of months now. An old fashioned soda fountain and lunch counter with multitudes of flavors and awesome food. And, just a couple of weeks ago, they opened for dinner Tuesday through Friday until 8:30. This was exciting. Pictured above is my Tooted Fruit soda (I think that is the name of it, but dammit it has been too long and I forgot to take a picture of the menu). It was lemony, limey, orangy and gingery. It was really good. I loved it.

Although Sara and Jaime both got milkshakes that provided pretty stiff competition:

Sara's was something about a cow and Jaime's was something about hazelnut butter. I didn't taste them, but I'm pretty sure they were fabulous.

Now for the food. I had decided earlier in the day, when I saw the Blueplate Blog with the menu that I was going to get the steak sandwich with mashed potatoes because duh. Steak + potatoes on any night of the week = happy. Jaime ordered the Shrimp Louie and Sara had the teriyaki. Now for more pictures:

Everyone ate their food. All of it for the most part. No one fell over and said "Oh my gosh this is so good I'll never eat anywhere else again." No one ran out and said "Oh my gosh this is so bad that I'll never eat here again." It was good. My sandwich bread didn't quite hold up to the steak and the steak was a little tough. The potatoes were awesomely perfect.

It was a nice atmosphere. The chef/owner works back in a tiny little kitchen pretty fast and also made time to come out and speak with all the tables. And I do like that they bring you your plate with the fork already in the food. I thought that was original. I'd like to take my nephews and niece there for some milkshakes sometime. And I would go back for dinner. They might need a little time to stretch their legs and get comfortable in dinnertime but I feel greatness coming on.

Thanks for the pictures, Sara!

McMenamins Edgefield (2126 S.W. Halsey St., Troutdale)

Reason #593 Why Portland is the Coolest City: The Decemberists were born here.

Kristin and I went to see them yesterday at Edgefield, a winery/hotel/ music venue/restaurant. First of all, it was a beautiful day, and they had yellow balloons flying. Which was a fortuitous sign that it was going to be a great concert.

It was sticky hot, but we managed to find some shade and chow down some burgers (McMenamins burgers - eh.) before Menomena came on. They are cool - kind of took a few minutes for me to get used to, but very cool.

We had good seats on the grass, thanks to our friend for saving us a spot. And I was delighted to be able to see Colin Meloy's face. The sound was good and loud and vibrating my water bottle, which I have never had happen before at an outdoor concert.

So my new favorite Decemberists song is something about the Culling - not sure of the exact title, but goes something like this. Listen up boy, take your lover to the river and dash her against the rocks, break her limbs... etc. Something violent and horrible, but why does it sound so catchy when Colin Meloy sings it? When he stands up there and says "Okay now listen up - here's the instructional part." Then sings about tying up the body, but sings it in a folk-songy-indie-rock kind of way. The Law and Order side of me was saying "Cool!"

The encore finale was The Mariner's Revenge Song, which is my FAVORITE song to hear them perform because there is audience participation, a giant whale (which ended up in the audience at the end), screaming, total chaos, never mind the tragedy of the story (mother dying, young boy grows up to take revenge on the scoundrel who ruined her life). It's just simply an experience and I love it! It brings out the kindergartner in me who likes to jump around and scream at the top of my lungs like I am being swallowed by a whale. Awesome.

Two Things You Should Check Out

In the November 21, 2005 issue of The New Yorker, the featured short story was "The Year of Spaghetti" by Haruki Murakami. It stands as my all time favorite short story. Probably because it has to do with spaghetti, which was my favorite food from the time I was about 5 until I was about 25. My favorite part of the story is this:

"Spring, summer, and fall, I cooked and cooked, as if cooking spaghetti were an act of revenge. Like a lonely, jilted girl throwing old love letters into the fireplace, I tossed one handful of spaghetti after another into the pot.

I’d gather up the trampled-down shadows of time, knead them into the shape of a German shepherd, toss them into the roiling water, and sprinkle them with salt. Then I’d hover over the pot, oversized chopsticks in hand, until the timer dinged its plaintive note.

Spaghetti strands are a crafty bunch, and I couldn’t let them out of my sight. If I were to turn my back, they might well slip over the edge of the pot and vanish into the night. The night lay in silent ambush, hoping to waylay the prodigal strands."

And it ends with this:

"Sometimes I wonder what happened to the girl—the thought usually pops into my mind when I’m facing a steaming-hot plate of spaghetti. After she hung up the phone, did she disappear forever, sucked into the 4:30 p.m. shadows? Was I partly to blame?

I want you to understand my position, though. At the time, I didn’t want to get involved with anyone. That’s why I kept on cooking spaghetti, all by myself. In that huge pot, big enough to hold a German shepherd.

Durum semolina, golden wheat wafting in Italian fields. Can you imagine how astonished the Italians would be if they knew that what they were exporting in 1971 was really loneliness?" -- Haruki Murakami, The Year of Spaghetti

This story is no longer available online, but you can find it in your library or on the New Yorker DVDs. You should read it. I think that my spaghetti is salsa. I've gotten off the phone before because I was making it. And even turned down dinner invitations because I was craving chopping the onions, tomatoes and cilantro. But shhhhh. Don't tell anyone.

The second thing you should check out is Mostly Martha. It is about to be released a la American with Catherine Zeta-Jones and Aaron Eckhart, which is certain to be crap compared to the classic German original. You will forget you are reading subtitles and believe that you are Martha, the chef, in therapy for her obsession with food and cooking and raising an unruly niece whilst falling in love with an Italian chef. This is seriously the best food movie EVER.

Buffalo Gap Saloon (6835 SW Macadam Ave)

About 8 years ago, I worked for a company (which shall remain nameless) located on Macadam Avenue. Every Friday one of the higher-ups, (we'll call her Kathy), would head over to the Buffalo Gap and engage in drinking games, off-the-clock flirtation and groping with numerous lower-downs. One time I had to call over to Buffalo Gap and interrupt their fun to get help turning off the security alarm. Kathy was annoyed with me. The raucous laughing in the background did have me intrigued though. It sounded like a fun place to be.

And, as I have discovered, it is a fun place to be. At times. I don't enjoy their actual buffalo burgers. A little gamey for me. But their other food is good bar food. For a bar. I've been there to listen to music, which is usually free (I'll tell you my story about THAT in a minute) and usually about free quality. But it's entertaining enough to occupy time if you don't have much else to do.

Last week, during the oppressive heat killing me softly, I decided to head over there since Willamette Week had listed a free show at Buffalo Gap in their music section. Just inside the door is a sign that points upstairs: Music [arrow] NEVER A COVER! That's great - just a little reassurance that all their shows are free. We get to the top of the stairs and the bartender scoots in front of us and says "Ten dollar cover charge tonight." Are you kidding? It goes from free to TEN DOLLARS??? That's not even a moderate jump. Maybe $2 or $3 or even $5. But to go from free to just kidding that will be $10 for a band that no one has ever heard of. I was kind of mad.

But it was hot and I was too sweaty to belabor the point and be valiant and find another place to dine. So my sis and I sat in the super smoky bar downstairs and ate our average dinner while listening to acoustic Snow Patrol. Which was probably better than the $10 concert anyway.

Real Good Food (www.realgoodfood.com)

I ran across a Portland food news item on Extra MSG the other day that Real Good Food, based in Portland, was having an "olive oil garage sale" on the fourth of July. I went and bought some REAL Italian olive oil and some sea salt from Portugal. It was like magic - it turned everything into addictive candy.

The salt is delicious sprinkled on watermelon. And tomatoes. And olives. And mozzarella. And bread with olive oil. And pasta. And... pretty much anything.

From the Heart, Baby

I just want to give a shout out to some people who have brightened my life lately:

1. Bruce Willis aka John McClane for kicking ass and shooting down a helicopter with a flying car.
2. The band Good Charlotte for singing The Anthem.
3. Whoever invented the walla walla onion ring recipe for Burgerville.
4. The guy in my writing workshop who wrote about his colonoscopy.
5. All of the actors in Ocean's 13 whose beautiful faces made the dumb story worth the 2 hours.
6. Whoever invented wedge heels because I tripped and fell into my garbage can at work because of my wedge heels and I got to call my 7 year old nephew and tell him the story and then listen to him laugh really hard.
7. The cast and crew of The Office - Seasons 1 and 2.

All of you are awesome. Don't ever change.

Waterfront Blues Festival (Waterfront Park)

All I want to do is make LOVE to you! I heard this phrase approximately 45 times yesterday at the Waterfront Blues Festival. Sung by men and women, old and young. All of them blues musicians. And can I just say. I never got tired of hearing it. Even once. Every time I heard it coming I wanted to stand up and sing. Of course it was so hot that I couldn't muster the energy to stand, so I sang as I sat on the grass.

From the Lake Oswego-matching-tennis-apparel-couples to the drunk stumblers to the old hippies and their tie-dyed blankets to the unruly children running around singing to the music. I loved it. Seriously. The best people watching EVER. Here's what I heard/saw:

Mother to 4-year old daughter wearing a bikini: "Tuck that tummy in!"

Same mother relentlessly banging a frozen water bottle against a cooler to break it up into pieces of ice for, oh I don't know, 20 minutes.

T-shirt that said "Quit Work. Make Music."

Woman collapsing from heat. People rush to help her and go get help from the excellent emergency medical services team. They arrive 5 minutes after she has recovered and moved on.

Numerous women in spike heels trying to maneuver the dirt/gravel walk way. "These shoes are not made for this!" One girl said to her friend. No shit, Sherlock.

Awesome gangsta looking guy in a Blazers jersey holding hands with a girl in a kimono.

Old, big-gut man wearing nothing but hot pink swimming trunks that were holding on desperately and dangerously close to something none of us wanted to see. (Repeat this story at least 4 times using different ages of men, different sized guts and different colors of shorts. That will about cover it. Or not.)

I had dinner from the Garbonzo's cart - a falafel plate that was pretty averagely good for food at the blues festival and seemed more healthy than the other choices. At least that's what I'm telling myself.

The Honey Bucket situation was actually not bad this year. There was a nice lemon-lime fragrance under the bridge and I only dry-heaved 4 times once I was locked in. Hot day + lots and lots of water for fear of dehydration = trip to nasty Honey Bucket. Once I escaped back outside, I was just fine.

Koko Taylor finished off the performances last night. Koko. Taylor. Koko. Taylor. Over and over. I could have sang that all night, demanding her to continue. She was cool.

Fireworks were awesome, with great blues music. There is just not a bad seat for that when you are on the waterfront. At the end of the day, as I was napping in my car waiting to get out of the SmartPark for an hour, I had the thought: I love Portland. I am actually in love with Portland. Head over heels for the people, the food and the atmosphere.

The festival goes through Sunday. You should definitely check it out. And if you are not already in love with Portland, you might be by the end of the weekend.

Portland Health and Wellness, LLC (1821 SE Ankeny St.)

A few months ago, while waiting for a movie to start at the Laurelhurst Theater, an ad popped on the screen for Portland Health and Wellness. It is not your typical health clinic, the ad said. That's true. It's location, in what looks to be an old warehouse or garage, is the first giveaway. They offer acupuncture, nutritional consultation, naturopathic care, psychotherapy and psychopharmacology. Their focus seems to be on eating disorders, nutrition, and mindful eating.

As part of their offerings, they have cooking classes - Cooking with Greens, Cooking for Diabetes, One-Pot Cooking, Cooking for Men/Women Who Hate to Cook, and several more. So, I decided to sign up for the Cooking for Diabetes class, because I can always learn more and $45 for a hands-on cooking class is a pretty good deal.

I got there at 10:00 on Saturday morning, ready to watch the chef in action. But before the cooking started, we sat in a conference room attached to the kitchen and listened to a nutritionist talk for 45 minutes about eating a healthy diabetic diet (note that I said EATING and not COOKING). Great information. Already know it. Already heard this from the doctor, from the American Diabetes Association. Already heard this for free. With our hands full of diet tips, charts, graphics on healthy diets, the nutritionist turned it over to the chef. He had given us three recipes that we were going to make.

First though, he had to make some adjustments. We were going to cut out the Cointreau from the marinated strawberries and use orange juice instead. Also these were not going to be served on angel food cake or with whipped cream as the recipe said because it was too much sugar, calories and also because he forgot to buy the cake.

He made some adjustments to the other recipes, but I can't remember what they were, mostly because the dessert modifications were near traumatic. I was looking at what was a KILLER recipe for marinated strawberries and because I am diabetic I have to cross out all that is good and tasty in the recipe. That's just mean. Here's what you could have had, but nope, not for you. You get strawberries in orange juice.

We sliced the strawberries and squeezed oranges over them. Somewhere along the line, the chef added yogurt to it, but I didn't see that part. Then we started chopping for the gazpacho. Pretty simple. Chop a bunch of vegetables and puree half of them, then mix the rest of the chunky stuff with the pureed stuff, add some seasonings and you are done. He did give us some great tips on chopping without cutting off your fingers. While we chopped and made the gazpacho, he made the fish, which looked good, but I totally missed what he was doing to it to make it good because I was busy making the gazpacho.

After about 45 minutes of chopping and mixing, we were ready to eat. The chef showed us how to plate the food and we all ate together at a long table. So. The gazpacho was good. Not great. It was too raw, I think or too chunky. Something. The fish was good. The strawberries were good. Not great. While we were eating, the chef talked about how we could alter the strawberries, not to be more diabetic friendly, but how to make them more tasty. Such as adding Cointreau, whip cream, Frangelico, cake, shortcake, chocolate, etc. It sounded good. But I could have thought those evil thoughts on my own. I don't need a chef to tell me that.

What I needed was a chef to give me general tips on diabetic cooking, such as, when you have a recipe that calls for abc, you can do xyz to alter the recipe and still have it taste good. That's what I wanted. Instead I got three altered recipes that (by the chef's own admission) I can make more tasty with salt, butter, whip cream and cake. And I probably will.

***P.S. I feel kind of bad. These people were all really nice and knowledgeable. And I think what they are doing with their clinic is awesome. I just think me and their cooking classes are not going to be BFFs. That's all. But totally go support their clinic because it's cool and where else can you get cooking classes, acupuncture and psychopharmacology (I don't actually know what that is, but I like saying it over and over because it sounds cool and makes me sound smart when I include it in conversation) in one place? Um hi. Nowhere.

Savoy Tavern and Bistro (2500 SE Clinton)

So if I am going to eat out alone, I like to have a distraction, like loud music or loud dining neighbors with scandalous conversation to stop me from talking to myself. (Oh stop judging. You know you talk to yourself too.) On Saturday I found the perfect place for solo dining. Savoy Tavern and Bistro is cozy over in the bar, with booths, leather chairs, candles and hipster waiters.

A live recording of Elliott Smith was playing over head. I love his music. It's great eating-alone-music. I was sitting there, eating my deep fried cheese curds, waiting for my entree to come listening to Miss Misery. The cheese curds were coated in pale ale batter and had nice chunks of sea salt on them. Do you miss me, Miss Misery? The cheese curds were perfect. Do you miss me, Miss Misery? I will have to return to the Corbett Fish House to see who wins for best cheese curds.

My entree came out pretty quickly. Pork loin, with polenta and greens. Won't you follow me down to the Rose Parade? I ate the pork slowly, allowing the polenta to soak up the juices from the pork and the greens. The polenta was slightly crispy on the outside and wonderfully moist and soakable on the inside. Won't you follow me down to the Rose Parade? The greens didn't have any salt on them, but it was such a perfect counteract to the salty polenta and the saucy pork. It's just that everyone's interest is stronger than mine.

I loved my meal. I felt like I bonded with Elliott Smith over dinner. So sick and tired of all these pictures of me. Elliott Smith, I don't know if you read my blog up in heaven, but I just want you to know that your music rocks. And I love you. I'm not surprised and really, why should I be?

P.S. Savoy Tavern, I love you too. I ate your leftovers for breakfast this morning and although not quite as good as they were last night when they were fresh, they were quite scrumptious with the help of the microwave.