The Restaurant Critic

Some opportunities come along once in a lifetime, which turns out to be false – yet again – about my days as a restaurant critic. The editor’s introduction calls for “a collection of highly readable and believable observations of the type you won’t find elsewhere.”  You can see why I got the call. 

I got paid, I ate good, win-win for a freelancer.  From July 1991. – JDW

CASSIDY’S 1331 SW Washington.  http://cassidysrestaurant.com/

Officially, Cassidy’s isn’t in the neighborhood, but you can see it from here.  Just a bunny-hop and an uphill skip off Burnside, this successful nightspot has a deserved reputation for fine dining and good times.  The tradition continues.  Victorian-era building.  Rich wood paneling.  On each table, fancy flowers I don’t know the names of.  Plenty of natural light.  No tobacco odor.  Linen napkins match the ceiling’s maroon hue.  Like a not-so-stuffy English club where women are welcomed.  Comfortable.

“Good dressing!,” my companion exclaimed as she tasted the house salad.  Good way to start a meal.  I enjoy the place.  While I am unable personally to vouch for the Rabbit Stew, there’s not an entry on the menu that’s a loser.  Honest.  The Ravioli, stuffed with smoked salmon, will make your socks roll up and down.  They smoke their own fish here.  They make their own noodles fresh daily.  As the quite graceful and understated waitress offered,”It all comes together very nicely.”  Large, filling portions, too.

A favorite hangout of the working (?) press, these folks serve a full menu of light meals, pastas and salads in the bar until 1:30 a.m.

Cassidy’s isn’t always crowded at that time of the morning, but there’ll probably be some people in attendance who will change your life if you stand too close.  For too long.

DANNI’S EUROPEAN CAFE.  2340 NW Thurman.

My first impression was Danni’s European Cafe must be selling restaurant supplies.  You know the feeling.  Metal chairs.  Steel and faux marble and glass, like some damn industry showroom.  Very cool, in a chilly way.  A good place to discuss the movie “Thelma & Louise” as a metaphor for Operation Desert Storm.  Food seemed an afterthought.

Seventeen tables, two occupied.  It was loud when it was empty.  Which wouldn’t have been so bad, if all the conversation was as titillating as this one snippet: “I wake up and Bob has his dirty old hands in my mouth.”

Somebody else – Bob maybe – talking about a recent hike:”It was a mind-body-nature experience.”

Everything about the place seemed schizophrenic.  One sensed that Daniela, a six-foot blonde who looks exactly like Sylvester Stallone’s last ex-wife, understood Europe better than she comprehended Thurman Street.

“What do you think of the mural?,” I asked my friend.  She replied, “I’m glad I wasn’t facing it.”

Though the oil painting of cross-dressing cult movie icon Divine was an amusing touch.

But, really, $9 for a glass – a glass! – of champagne?  A six-ounce bottle of French Brut for $51.  We’re talking U.S.dollars here.  And was I actually supposed to eat the purple flower that came with the Curly Endive Salad?  I’ve only recently worked up to parsley.

We speak in the past tense about Danni’s European Cafe because it seems Danni’s is out of business.  Nobody answered the phone.

The last designer touch was butcher paper masking the windows.

JOE’S CELLAR.  1332 NW 21st.

“Are you looking for the lounge?”, the waitress asked when I walked in.  No “howdy.”  No, “Are you here for dinner?”

Just “Are you looking for the lounge?”

Inside the bar, a cadre of regulars greeted another day with boilermakers.  Strong and cheap.  Their eyes could barely track the action on the big screen television.  Which was just as well.  They’re watching lady body builders on ESPN.

If you’re looking for good food, it’s here.  But it’s not fancy.  Sure, you can pay $23 for two lobster tails, but they’re probably freezer-burned, so why bother.  You don’t come to a place like this for fresh seafood.  C’mon, use your head.

Home-style cooking.  On her best day, June Cleaver couldn’t come up with mashed potatoes as tasty as these.  Chicken-fried steak.  Pork chops for breakfast.  Hearty fare.  There’s always a police cruiser or two parked outside.  That’s usually a sign you can expect goodly portions, low prices, quick service and strong coffee.

So, you ask, who’s Joe?  The former owners named the joint after a favorite haunt in Hawaii.  Though there are neighborhood folks who swear Joe is a friend.  They say he’s generous, too.

RED ROBIN.  2050 SW Morrison.

What do you think of when you think of Red Robin?  No, they’re not giving away a Cadillac convertible.  That’s Burgerville.  Well, it’s got a mascot, looks like the San Diego Chicken.  And these days you can get a burger anyplace, including gas stations.  Chuck E. Cheese’s without the video games maybe.

Actually, the place looks like it was decorated by Dens “R” Us.  Imagine the basement hideaway of that successful linoleum salesman from Salem, Lenny Testosteroni.  Fringed lampshades and brass railings.  Self-described as “the Tabasco sauce of restaurants,” the Red Robin reminds some of T.G.I.Fridays without all the sexual energy.

A huge menu.  HUGE.  About the size of a road map.  If you can’t find a meal here that’ll fill you up and make your tummy hum the theme song from “Twin Peaks,” then kemo-sabe, consider professional help.

Live life on the edge.  Start with Red’s Hot Peppers – jalapenos stuffed with cream cheese, rolled in cracker crumbs, deep-fried and dipped in jelly.

Follow up with a fully-equipped Forklift Burger and wash it down with a Fruity Boozie Smoothie or a Peach Schnappsicle.  Think of the too-sweet names as a foreign language and just point to the menu.

Plenty of seating with beer served in pitchers.

JAIME’S RESTAURANT.  1000 NW 17th.

A night of dining dangerously requires a leap of faith.

Jaime’s recent remodeling somehow manages to look twenty years old.  Although there’s less bamboo than I remember, the inside of Portland’s finest – and only – Filipino restaurant still looks like a set from “Joe vs. The Volcano.”  The ambiance is more like a black and white movie.  Play it again.

A bald hairdresser in studded leather tends bar.

This is a family place.  A nine-month-old baby in diapers slides across a table top.  In the center of the dining room, a half-dozen Filipino men drink San Miguel beer.  One is asleep.

Is Jaime’s authentic?  Did Imelda Marcos like high heels?  The Partially-Incubated Duck Egg should answer that former question.  Or maybe the Blood Stew.  Luckily, they were all out when I visited Jaime’s.  Just after the Rose Fleet had stopped by on shore liberty.  “The sailors ate it all.”  Apparently, much of the U.S. Navy thinks Jaime’s serves the best Filipino food this side of Manila.

The Longanisa – a spicy sausage – accompanied by any vegetable dish on the menu, will make you come back the next morning.

Breakfasts are only $3.29.  Rice instead of hash browns.  You’ll wonder why everybody doesn’t do it that way.

MALLORY HOTEL.  729 SW 15th.

If you’re wondering where the Henry Thiele crowd moved to, look no further.  The eclectic clientele is alive and still ordering Fried Corn Meal Mush.  Blue-haired matrons mingle with out-of-towner business-types.  Families of all ages.  But, please, don’t take the Mallory for granted.  That might be a retired inspector from Scotland Yard sitting by himself in the corner.

The German Pancake That Became An Institution is still a great way to reward yourself for, uh, whatever.  Still the size of a manhole cover.  Still a meal in itself.  Okay, two meals.  The waiter carries the plate with both hands.

He seems glad to have us drop by.  Service is professional, in the best sense of the word.  The water glass is never empty.  Drop your fork and don’t be surprised if the busboy catches it.  “Did you get enough to eat?”  Attentive.

Classic atmosphere.  Cathedral ceilings and crystal chandeliers.  Chairs with cushions and arms and rollers.  You can wear a coat and tie here without feeling out of place.  The food arrives on a cart.

The lamb chops are understandably famous.  Dinner entrees are in the $10-$13 range.

Remember, this is a hotel.  The Mallory has a newsstand, and rooms right upstairs if you’re in no condition to drive home.

FRENCH’S.  1639 NW Glisan.

Sometimes restaurant reviews read like the critic never actually ate at the place.  Like he watched other people eat the meal, interviewed them after dessert and reported back.  I actually ate here.

At 6:30 p.m., the bartender tells me the kitchen is closing in fifteen minutes, so I’d better go to the lounge.  On one side a full bar, on the other side is a naked woman dancing languidly to Ray Charles singing “Georgia on my mind.”  Exotically exercising her freedom of speech.  She waves, I wave back.  Somebody else – sitting much closer to the stage – slides her a wrinkled dollar bill.

Since the cook’s closing shop, I decide to skip the Creole delights like Crawfish Etoufee and Chicken Liver Bayou.  Next to the television set, two signs advertise the specials.  Frankly, something about the Eat A Beaver Half-Pound Burger sounds surprisingly less than mouth-watering.  So, I go with seafood, 21 Shrimp In A Basket.  Accompanied by garlic toast and more Cajun fries than necessary.

Eighteen.  They should’ve known I’d count.  Pretty sure it was eighteen.  My attention being diverted.  Momentarily but repeatedly.

Her name was Candy.