In March, an old friend came to visit me. I picked him up at the airport at nine thirty p.m. By ten ten, we were at Denny’s, recapping time lost over seasoned fries and the Meat Lover’s breakfast special. My friend – a man whom I have known for ten years, my former boss and one-time culinary mentor – is the pastry chef at 40 Sardines* in Overlook Park, Kansas (which is very close to Kansas City, Missouri). Though Bump and I have known each other for the better part of my adult life – and seen each other through surgeries, break-ups, fashion disasters, workplace dramas, weevils and more – the prospect of seeing him after having been physically apart for almost three years made me nervous. What’s worse than having someone travel 1,493 miles, approximately, and then discover than you can’t so much stand to be in the same room together? Or that there’s nothing to talk about?

Fortunately for the two of us – and we got along just famously, thank you very much – we have one very important shared passion: food, particularly sweet food. Unlike other past house guests, Bump was mostly interested in lounging and eating. Lounging and eating are two of my most favorite activities, so we were ahead before we even began. To exhaustively detail the full three-and-a-half-day FoodFest would be overkill, I feel. So I shall give you only the highlight, and suggest that you treat yourself to an hour or an afternoon there as well.

On SW 13th Avenue in Downtown Portland, between Burnside and Washington, in the vicinity of Powell’s, Masu, and Whole Foods Market, there is a small shop called Cacao. When they are open, there is a chocolate-colored sandwich board on the sidewalk in front of their modest entrance.

Cacao, I am sure you can guess, is all about chocolate. The shop – less a “store” or “café,” though it is also both of these things – is so beautifully decorated; it looks and feels exactly like the Chocolate Shop in your head. They have nailed the paradigm without slipping into cliché or dry predictability. It is gorgeous, and everything about it is rich and sweet and bold. Time passes more slowly inside Cacao than it does on the sidewalk just outside. When you get there, you can either walk right up to the counter and order yourself some chocolate, liquid or solid, with or without spices, nuts, or coffee, and sit down at one of the small tables or stools to enjoy your purchase (I do not recommend getting your chocolate to go, unless you are taking it back home to bed or breakfast nook); or you can make slow laps around the rest of the shop, admiring the gorgeously packaged, simply and effectively displayed chocolate bars for sale. They are arranged clustered by producer. I particularly liked the Michel Cluizel, Theo – single origin (especially the 75% Ivory Coast) and the 3400 Phinney product line (you must try the Bread and Chocolate bar. Must.) – and Dolfin Chocolat. There are “serious” chocolates – like the single origin bars that are marketed by production region and percent cocoa (like 75% Ivory Coast, get it?) – and frou-frou chocolates – like Dolfin’s Chai bar (very good) and 3400′s Coconut Curry bar (very bad). There are chocolate sauces and books and posters. There are confections – truffles, mostly – elegantly displayed in the glass case at the counter.

I was very impressed by the owners and employees at Cacao. They were unobtrusively friendly, very, very eager to answer our questions and – miracle of miracles – provide samples of any chocolate bar in the store. If you are going to pay six or eight or twelve dollars for a not-too-huge bar of chocolate, wouldn’t you like to be sure it is just exactly the one you want? I would have purchased the Szechwan pepper bar, not the pink pepper bar. I thought it would be a no-brainer (because aren’t pink peppercorns kind of silly?), until I tasted them. The Szechwan bar was too gritty, too assertive. But the noir au poivre rose maintained that lovely smoothness we so love in good chocolate. The pepper was bright and flavorful without being too overwhelming. I never would would have chosen it over the other, based on my feelings of Szechwan versus Pink pepper, so I was particularly grateful for the taste.

Not only were the staff friendly, but unexpectedly, delightfully knowledgeable as well. This makes perfect sense in retrospect: one who owns or works at a specialty shop should know everything about the three types of items one sells. I was initially surprised, however, at the ease with which one fellow (he must have been Aubrey or Jesse, who are the owners, as far as I can tell) rattled off tidbits about cacao-growing regions and related bean acidity. This may sound very pretentious and overdone, but I assure you, the atmosphere is palatable. There is no snobbery, at least not on the day Bump and I were there reveling in our shared food-geekiness, only informed passion, an uncommon generosity, and a clear desire to share both with the customer.

By the time we left the shop, I was more than sated. We sampled all three varieties of drinking chocolate (order the 2 oz., for heaven’s sake, not the 4 oz. size), and half a dozen of the bars available for sale. Bump got the name and contact information of a supplier who might be able to ship his favorite El Rey couverture to Kansas City for use in 40 Sardines. I tasted two chai-flavored bars, two pepper-flavored bars, and three, I think, single origin varieties. On my way out, all I wanted was a glass of water. A whole beautiful chocolate shop at my very fingertips and all I wanted to was water. That’s success for Aubrey and Jesse, I’d say.
*If you happen to go to the website, and then download the dessert menu, I want you to know that inspiration for the Cajeta Torte occurred in the just down the street from my house. So I’m kind of famous, just so you know.

      The meal we ate, however, did not reflect this common Monday night mentality. Aside from the thinly populated dining room and the absent Chef (my dining companion, an especially outgoing fellow, asked after him), I wouldn’t have guessed that it was a slow night. The food was many things, but not maimed or neglected or hung over.

      I am still working to shake the bonds of child-picky-eater-hood and sometimes it is a little hard for me to find something that does not contain a scary ingredient. In Italian restaurants, avoiding cheese, cream sauces, cured meats and most tomato preparations is not easy, let me tell you. The good news is that I am practicing surrender, and I haven’t been too badly burned. The way I see it, if this Daniel Mondok fellow, this résumé chef (just whisper Thomas Keller and watch the table go silent), has decided that I will have chantrelles under my scallops, then who I am to argue? Do I wear an embroidered chef’s coat? Do people make reservations to eat in my dining room, and then happily pay obscene sums for my squab? They do not. When a body goes to all that trouble to craft a plate, as is obviously done here, you don’t suppose for a moment that he is the messiah returned, but do you take it the way he wants to give it to you.

      It’s easy to forget that this whole show – from the burnished concrete floor to the flatware to the fixtures in the bathroom – is designed, hopefully – to set off the meal. And if the food would be any less tasty eaten out of a pie plate next to a drainage ditch, then it could be that priorities ought to be reordered. Suffice it to say that the interior of the restaurant is just lovely. It’s a little manly and dark without being overbearing at all. The waitstaff is well turned out in crisp black, toe to head, and topped with a trendy hairdo. There aren’t many visual distractions. It is easy, in fact, to let the dining room just fade back until the your table becomes the whole world.

      So, the food.

      Appetizer, first: Westcott Bay Mussels. I heart mussels. My regular consumption of said seafood began as a way to unsettle my dining companions and make up for not liking clams. But it turns out those little suckers really do ring my chimes. A good mussel is an awe-making sensory experience. The mussels we had at Carlyle were big and fat and poufy, lounging in the most gorgeous, smoky tomato sauce in the history of ever. The sauce tasted like the grill, like fire, like all the best parts of burning without any of the bitter tongue gouges. It was mysterious and strong. It was simple. Slices of hard chorizo sausage and confit garlic cloves appeared once in a while, lending a little spice and a welcome variation in texture from the slick bivalves. The mussels themselves were perfectly executed; and by this I mean to suggest that they could taste like anything, but they were handled and cooked exactly right. A bad mussel is a horror. Aside from it being impossible to appear graceful or cute whilst trying to pry a hesitant mussel off its shell, even using one of those painfully lovable three-tined mini forks, they can get gummy, chewy, and/or crunchy if they aren’t cooked right, if they’re not so fresh, or if they’re of substandard quality to begin with. When you are eating a good mussel, you should not be able to discern its parts during mastication. No grit, no “beard,” no wobbly innards. I am pleased to write that these were the best-executed mussels I have ever had the pleasure to chew and swallow. (and I’d like to add that if they are asking $14. for a starter, then they’d darned well better be great.)

      Our second appetizer – for we were foolish, greedy children and ordered too much food – was a big ol’ plate of fried. On the menu, it’s Crispy Calamari Fritto Misto – “mixed fried.” Squid tentacles are another thing I love to munch for the contorted faces the act sometimes inspires. They don’t taste like much, but they’re fun. Tossed with the squid were preserved lemon (an unexpected and very, very happy surprise for the palate), pieces of something passing for cod, green beans, and parsley. Parsley, my friends. If this is something we’re doing now, I am definitely, woefully out of the loop. Fried basil is pretty normal for garnish, but I have never seen leaves of parsley battered and deep-fried. To my delight, they were not soggy or greasy or heavy: that bright twang was completely intact – even, as with the lemon, amplified.

      The scallops came next, after a little break to digest (another bonus for going when it’s not busy). They were silver dollar-sized, naked, seared on one side only, laid out in a neat row of three over a potato hash, ringed with sauce, and hugged in an oval dish. [Breathe.] And the best part – they felt and tasted just like scallops.

      I was impressed with the dessert menu. In crafting a menu, it’s important, obviously, to make sure there is something – at least one thing – that should appeal to anyone, within reason I guess. For American and European dessert menus, I make sure always to include a chocolate, a fruit, an ice cream, and a pastry. Coffee’s good too, but not essential in my book. From there you can play – highlight seasonal fruit or a signature dish. I’m not so hard to please in the dessert department, however, at least as far as choices go. I’ll take the persimmon crème caramel, the wine poached bosc, or the chocolate and passion fruit mousse cake – just so long as it’s perfect. Since the sweet kitchen is where I’ve spent most of my time, I am much less forgiving there. If I can do it as good or better myself, then there’s really no reason to eat out, eh?

      After a quick state-of-the-stomach conference wherein we decided to push the limits and maybe not eat for the next few days, we chose the chestnut soufflé. It came in a sea of vanilla crème anglaise studded with chocolate sauce so thick it was almost ganache. The soufflé itself sat humbly in the middle, dusted with confectioner’s sugar. It put on no airs and made no apologies. The outside was light and firm and just a little crunchy on account of the granulated sugar used to line the mould. As our spoons made their way inward, the soufflé yielded to a soft, just-baked center. It wasn’t gooey, exactly, just warm and loose and spectacularly tasty.

      I find that I cannot properly explain what a chestnut tastes like, let alone a chestnut soufflé. They are vaguely sweet and earthy, and the texture of the nut itself is surprising. The only other time I’ve met with a chestnut was in Spain, in the Plaça Major en Palma de Mallorca. A viejo had a small cart in one corner selling hot roasted chestnuts – castañas – in paper cones, y la única decisión: entre grande o pequeño. I think I could not have loved them more or felt any more content as I walked slowly down the narrow cobbled streets nibbling on my simple treasure. And so with this soufflé. I suppose you will have to go try it yourself.

      I am hesitant to overtly recommend Carlyle. It’s darned expensive. There’s a blurb on the website about their being dedicated to locally farmed stuff, which I like. I hear, also, that the Chef is a good tipper and likes to play table tennis in his kitchen. This suggests to me that he’s a swell enough guy who deserves success just as much as the rest of us. High-end designer food is a tricky thing, though. It obviously isn’t just a meal and that’s where I get hung up. It’s an experience. It’s being able to pay ungodly sums for dinner. It’s enjoying being coddled and wooed by the attentive waitstaff. It’s the shiny bar and the linen napkins. It’s knowing that someone wants you to have all of this, because you are special. Dinner here was a nice vacation from the real for me. Life isn’t and won’t be about eating divinely perfect mussels every week, or about “house infused habanero pepper vodka” – but it’s a nice trip once in a while.

Check ‘em:
www.carlylerestaurant.com
1632 NW Thurman/PDX/97209

My introduction to Indian food happened in Cali, at the weekly farmer’s market in my hometown – India’s Clay Oven has a booth there every week. Across the top is a banner that reads: When is a burrito not a burrito? When it’s a Naan burrito! I made fun of this for years.
And then I had one – curried veggies, chicken, or lamb laid over basmati rice and wrapped in naan fresh from a tandoori oven they rolled down onto the street – and it was so, so wonderful. And portable. I still make fun of the sign, but no trip home is complete until I’ve had a naan burrito and a stroll down the wharf.

I’ve since cultivated a love for extra spicy lamb vindaloo, vegetable pakoras, and all manner of lentils. No two restaurants make any dish the same way, which is irksome – and attributable, I assume, to regional differences. Here in P-town, I have found a handful of very pleasing Indian restaurants. Swagat is really great. India House is passable, but rice there is a la carte, which always rubs me the wrong way. The Bombay Cricket Club on SE Hawthorne adds that cute little edge of imperialism to the meal. There are numerous sidewalk purveyors of Indian-on-the-go as well – Taste of India, The Real Taste of India and the New Taste of India come immediately to mind. The real gem of the bunch, however, is theIndia Chaat House. It’s a van permantently parked on the corner of SW 12th and Yamhill, across the street from Portland Clinic parking structure. It is not the most gracious dining to be had, but they’ve gone to the trouble to erecting a plywood enclosure around a couple of picnic tables and anyway, you’re not going there to take in the atmosphere. What you’ll be going there for – and you are going – is the super-yummy, shockingly inexpensive Indian food prepared just for you by real, live, super-friendly Indian people.

Here’s where I start to gush:

- Everything that comes out the Chaat House is vegetarian and they’ll vegan-ize just about anything if you ask.
- It’s inexpensive. A big ol’clamshell of curry and rice ($5-$6) gets me three meals.
- It’s nutritious* and delicious.
- In addition to their menu of 20+ curries and such, they have a chaat (snack) menu if you only want a taste.
- The mango lassi is worth the dairybelly if milk’s not so kind to your insides.
- They offer a “big, big, lunch special” from 11am – 4pm that consists of three curries (their choice and selections change every day), rice and naan for a measly $5.

To sum up: Try it; you’ll like it. And if you don’t, I’ll finish your leftovers.

*I can’t back that up.