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.
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