Review-- Beaker and Flask, Portland, OR

Cocktails are great. Let not this steadfast truth go unsaid. And great cocktails, well, they make the angels sing, the stars align, and make Michelle Bachman’s sanctimonious ice-clenched vagina tumble into a lake of fire. Beaker and Flask is a place to partake of such powerful and heavenly imbibements.

On my first visit, I arrived during one of the peaks of service, about 7:30. The focus on the bar scene is evident—the bar stands tall, and runs perhaps 40 feet in length in a sweeping arc across the main dining room. A flurry of activity may be seen through the kitchen pass-through—the sole window of white light in an otherwise appropriately darkened hive.

This is a place where flirtation is orchestrated with a cheerful, if not suggestive, nudge. The low light places emphasis on what your partner is saying, less so on appearance. The smells travel from plates of food, and awaken the senses. The muffled din behind the bar; glasses clinking in a steady hand, ice violently crashing inside a tumbler, liquids sloshing precisely into a veritable galaxy of funky and interesting glasses. Yes, the bar men know what they are doing.

I found both the Two Dollar Pistol and the New Vieux forgivably on the sweet side—the recipes are interesting enough to overlook the extra sugar. I was really fond of the Devil in a Boot, an shadowy doppleganger to the Rusty Nail maybe. Maybe not. Whatever, cocktails are great. The bar is great. Leave it go.

Now then, I had awfully high hopes for the food. I mean I just about expired all over myself to read that crispy pig ears were the very first item on the menu, followed by pretzels, deviled eggs…my culinary chubby had begun.

Pig ears were righteous—crisp, not burnt, pleasantly chewy in the center. Bit of that ‘stick to your fillings’ kinda thing. Especially nicely washed down with some brown liquor. The smoked trout deviled eggs delivered as well. Not dripping in mayo, served chilled. Very nice.

Moving to the right side of the menu is where we encounter some difficulty. Let me rephrase—the food portion of the menu really breaks the crap out of the carefully orchestrated and pleasant spell that the cocktails and snacks have cast upon the happy diner up until this point.

Not to say there aren’t some good things. In fact, most of the items themselves on the menu were at one point, quite remarkable. It’s a hallmark of too many modern chefs to try and show off, when they should simply cook. Or, to put it another way, too many chefs are sticking their perverted little fingers too greedily in the ass of something beautiful. There’s a right way to finger-bang, and there is a very wrong way.

I’m not sure what the desired effect of smoked sweetbread is to impart upon the palette, but it didn’t come through in the batch I had. I couldn’t really taste any smokiness at all. Nor could I taste any seasoning. When you consider the amount of prep that goes into this fussy little gland, it’s hard to conceive they forgot to season them. But they sure did. Indeed, there were claims of a ‘corn bisque’ for the sweetbreads to sit upon. There was no corn bisque. There was, however, a semi-solidified up-chuck of mild yellow spackle. There were also a small handful of cremated fennel ashes, some nicely blistered cherry tomatoes (the savior, riding bravely to the rescue of this twelve dollar disaster). The saddest item of all is the syrupy drizzle of what must have been balsamic reduction thrown with wanton abandon about the plate by Jackson Pollock. Although offal continues to rise in popularity, few know how to do it right.

Onto the quail. I believe that I have never had a saltier dish. Perhaps the salt lick that I tasted at the petting zoo when I was three. Yes, that’s a bit saltier. Again, at one point this quail was lovely. Maybe domestic. Or local even. It could have been from a farm 12 miles outside of Portland. The quail is served with what is, ostensibly, a ‘salad.’ Not a salad in the culinary sense, but in the artistic sense; as in Dadaism—revealing the randomness of modern society. Just a jumble of nouns thrown together thoughtlessly and apparently while the salad maker was under great duress. Perhaps even at gunpoint. A yard sale of dressing-drowned arugula, fennel, and strawberries. And a big glob of dun-colored pesto beside it. I tried combining the different items to unlock the secret that the chef was trying to reveal to me. Perhaps he really was at gunpoint this very minute, trying to send a cry for help through this haphazard pile of food. Try as I might, it still just tasted like over-dressed aruglua, fennel, strawberries, lower-intestinal pesto, and lightly-quailed salt.

I pressed on to the pork cheeks. Oh, yes, more off-cuts fall victim to the zeitgeist of the modern chef. I can almost see her or him standing before the product, boning knife clenched in tattooed hand, quizzically staring, guessing, hoping. And here's the tragedy-- the pork cheeks are very good. What’s unfortunate is that they are quite hopelessly buried inside a cacophony of mediocre accompaniments. Braised-to-death peppers and onions, the braising liquid from which is wholly subsumed by what might at one point have been a nice chunk of artisan bread but which has been rendered cadaverous by the braising liquid being applied to early. What comes to rest on the plate before the diner is a puffy, pulchritudinous, foot-shaped slab of quivering glop. On top of which is a drapery of sad, El Greco, peppers and onions, punctuated by three mildy sour but otherwise un-redeeming calamari tentacles. It’s a mass grave with two nicely prepared pork cheeks hidden within.

I must say I gave in. I could not return for another visit. Nor did the slightly-muted-surliness of the sulking bartenders tug at my heartstrings. They might be excellent mixologists or whatever the kids are calling them, but if you’re doing food at the bar, you need to check in once in a while. Or you could just cull the menu way back and just do snacks and drinks. I might go back for just that, but not for dinner.

Review - Ned Ludd, Portland, OR

Ned Ludd has been on my list since before I moved to Portland. I was not surprised by the location, but oddly pleased with the bravery it represents—it’s nestled in a rather suspect ‘hood, adjacent to crumbling auto parts stores, mediocre BBQ joints, and in the foot-path of street urchins and other generally undesirable elements.

Fear not, gentle diner, as there is a nice little parking spot for bike or car just adjacent to the venue, with large windows so you can keep an eye on your transportation while you dine. As you approach, you encounter olfactory bliss—a large, black smoker stands denizen, guarding the entrance like an anthropomorphic metal sphynx, great ropes of sooty smoke snarling skyward from it’s clenched jaws.

Upon entering, you are struck immediately, palpably with the designed experience: a rough pile of wood nearly overflows into the foyer with several, (yeah, not one but several) well-used axes of varying length and size. Perhaps the hostess is obliged to chop a chord or two during down times. At any rate, it’s a nice touch, lending both an air of authenticity to the smoker outside, as well as an odd decorative feature.

The rest of the décor makes you feel as though you have stumbled into an ether frolic deep inside an enchanted forest in a German faerytale. There is no space left un-festooned. The walls are replete with copper, wood, glass, bottles, saws, articles and evidence of by-gone eras placed neatly, if erratically, above, below, in front and behind the diner. There is so much stuff in this pixie garage-sale you feel nearly dizzy.

Promptly and formerly greeted, I sat near a window to peruse the curt menu, delightfully absent of adjective and the usual restaurant lingo. It’s hard to believe the same being that created the menu had a hand in the décor.

I tend to fall all over myself for anything pickled and I’m happy to report that Ned Ludd’s pickles are excellent—chard stem, turmeric-hued cauliflower, sweet & sour onion, and mushrooms, and strawberries sang in fairly perfect briny harmony (strawberries didn’t really add anything, could have been an off-batch).

The glass of rosé I chose to wash down my dinner was perfect, and perfectly priced, a nice, not washed out, cote du rhone. By the time the radishes and butter arrived, I began to settle in to this woodsy hallucination. It’s over-full of stuff but it’s clean. The bar has the right apperetif and cocktails to go with the food they make. So what if it feels like there’s so much stuff in there that it will topple over and you will have to be un-avalanched?

They brought long and short radishes, some spicy, some tender, greens attached, tiny little hairy tendrils still gripping the color of the earth. Butter was a little pale and not quite enough salt, but still an excellent (wait, did you say eight bucks for radishes and salt?). When I asked for more salt I noticed the teeny weeny terrarium that adorns each table. A little galaxy within a little galaxy. I half expected a Cheshire cat to appear and begin questioning me. Who are you?

I’ve lived a privileged life. My first experience with testa was at Lupa in NY. The expert preparation there set the bar awfully damn high for any other to follow. At Lupa the pig’s head is ever-so-delicately presented, shaved off a nine-inch diameter loaf, delicate bits of parsley brightly spangle the luxurious fat. It’s an arabesque of pig head tightrope artistry that I doubt I will ever witness again.

Consequently, I set my expectations pretty low when I ordered. However, the server (one of four who warmly, if formally, cared for me this evening) showed such genuine enthusiasm when explaining that they got some nice giancciale tucked in there, as well as some spice, I got carefully excited. The testa at Ned Ludd (there are two versions) is nothing short of a show-stopper. Deeply earthy bits of head, face and jowl, play perfectly against the delicate disappearance of fat on your tongue, the red pepper flakes spiking the palate in a just-so way, all while a chorus of axe-wielding, mushroom-crazed woodsmen playfully chase enchanted roosters and singing gnomes around the copper pots and molds behind the bar. Oh, what a naughty caprice!

I find it really refreshing how informally dressed the servers in Portland tend to be (the Clark Lewis uniform is a good example). The servers and host at Ned Ludd share that opinion, clearly. However, it’s a bit discordant that the service style is stiff, but the dress is not. For example, the server who poured my water took care to tuck his non-pouring hand carefully across the small of his back, as though wearing a clip-on bow tie, before making crepes suzette and boning a tarbot table-side. And although the service was bright, it was also by-the-book:'How are you enjoying your rose?' 'Do you find the rabbit to your liking?' These totems of fine-dining have no place in a Mid Summer Night’s dream. I guess the business model begs the server to play it safe and formal, but I wanted everyone to have a shot of absinthe with me, lick a psychotropic frog and say something absurd, or at least amusing. Overall, I can’t say the service was bad, it just made me feel a little bit like I was at a catered event.

The entrée’s seem to be a little less solid than the rest of the menu, the rabbit dish I had was off— dry rabbit loin wrapped in under-done bacon, served on a dish of under-seasoned mashed potatoes with a light broth that immediately disappeared in the potatoes as soon as the dish hit the table, leaving the mashers in a beige halo…and a big pile of sourly dressed greens on top.

I would recommend Ned Ludd strongly to anyone. Not a romantic affair, but an odd, dissonant tone. It’s an strong arc of food. Nobody is doing this kind of thing and it’s awesomely un-repeatable.