Salvage Heart

Here in the Northwest, our mild climate allows us to maintain some semblance of garden year-round.

Except, in my case, during the spring. Or early summer, for that matter. I mean, we put plants in, but they just didn't take. Is it a garden when you have two cilantro plants and one six-foot purple fennel that wintered over?

So, here we are, green tomatoes in mid-August, the cilantro gone, the basil barely hanging on, strawberries still occasionally forming and rotting.

I mean, the zucchini hasn't even gotten going.

So to the left, a map I made of the replants done this past weekend. 'X' marks existing plants. Three days later, the lettuce, arugula, and basil have all sprouted. The rest gets two weeks, and then I'm going to start midnight-gardening with a bucket full of Miracle-Gro.

And yes I amended the soil. The whole thing is a little embarrassing.

Labels: food, gardening, Portland

I recently reviewed Michael Pollan's new book, In Defense of Food: An Eater's Manifesto for The Oregonian. Liked it. We're making an effort to eat more collards and kale, and less meat. That seems like a good place to start. And we went out to the Hillsdale Farmers' Market last Sunday, where it was clear that he who skips church shall get all the good greens. We made off with some nice yellow onions and some old apples from October.

One thing that struck me about Pollan's book is that he places a lot of blame, but the one person who comes away unscathed and blameless is the consumer. Now, that may be because until recently eating locally grown food was not much of an option. Or it may be that we are unable to relent in the face of a multi-billion-dollar ad campaign to get us to buy processed things in boxes.

Maybe. But from here on out, I think we can consider ourselves warned. Eating right (and eating real foods) can safely be lumped in with "go get some exercise" as things we now know to do. Or can't pretend we don't know to do.

I also bought goggles and a swim suit this week, and signed my oldest up for swim lessons. I don't think I can lose a Huckabee Hundred, but maybe I can lose a Conservation District Dozen.

Labels: books, food, journalism, Michael Pollan, Oregonian

My article on small-scale winter farming ran in Tuesday's FoodDay, the Oregonian's food section. It ran in tandem with another piece, by Kathleen Bauer who writes the Good Stuff NW blog, on some of the local markets that go through winter.

Good story for me, in that I took a lot away that I didn't know before. Seems like ten degrees is the make-or-break temp for veggies outdoors, which means that some Willamette Valley crops are now broke. (I know the beet and turnip greens, mint, and other odds and ends still in my garden are pretty scroungy looking at this point).

Probably the biggest surprise to me was the prevalence of winter shares in Community Supported Agriculture (CSA) programs...and the number of farms who have added or will add them in the next year or so. A good resource for finding what's close is the Local Harvest site.

I visited (and clumsily photographed) Shari Sirkin's Dancing Roots Farm, out at the mouth of the Columbia River Gorge, and took some pictures. She's raising greens in a couple unheated greenhouses (hoop frames), and the rest is out in the open.

Labels: agriculture, farm, farmers markets, food, journalism, Oregonian, Portland, winter

A piece on Marco Shaw that I've had simmering for awhile (on my assignment list and then in the editor's queue) finally ran today, in the inPortland section of The Oregonian.

Shaw is the owner and chef at Fife, co-owner of a relatively new take-out place called Full Plate, and has plans to open Hard Shell in the Vanport Square Development down on MLK sometime this spring...hopefully.

I'm hardly the first to write about him (Nancy Rommelmann did a really nice interview that ran on Portland Food and Drink, back in Feb '06), but I've watched that restaurant since its build-out in 2002, and have spoken with Shaw (and interviewed) a number of times. In this era of celebrity and hysteria, his solid, straightforward style paradoxically stands out.

Labels: Fife, food, Full Plate, Hard Shell, journalism, Marco Shaw, Oregon, Portland, restaurant

As a breakfast joint, Little Red Bike Cafe, was well worth the foray into the heart of North Lombard/University Park in North Portland.

As a freelance assignment for The Oregonian, it was a complete bust.

Ali Jepson and Evan Dohrmann, locals and longtime friends, opened the 15-seat cafe August 30, 2007 in the site of a former coffee shop, NoPo Coffee, at 4823 N.Lombard. They did a fair amount of work, replaced fixtures (overhead fluorescents) with snazzy Schoolhouse Electric. They bought new furniture, from Portland's own Ikea, which collapsed. They bought more furniture.

The two had run a catering company with an outpost at the Thursday and Saturday farmers markets, Green & Green Salad Co., selling bread pudding (I think). The two had in mind a "quick-serve salad" concept, but couldn't find a decent space that would pencil out.

Then their buddy David, who owns the waffle stand Flavour, also on Lombard, tipped them off to the NoPo location. "If we could get here, we could make it work," Dohrmann said, when I spoke to him yesterday (Oct 16). It was a far cry from the 2,000 sq ft they had envisioned, but it would work.


The name came from Ali Jepson's sister's e-mail address, and evoked in their minds a mid-century simplicity that they sought to carry forward with their menu, with the requisite updates. The two also have an appreciation for biking, though Dohrmann says that they are Sunday-around-the-neighborhood bikers rather than the Lycra variety. (Little Red Bike is also a children's book.) And, their coffee roaster, Joel of Courier Coffee Roasters, just so happened to make deliveries by bike (see photo).

So the breakfast: I had the Paperboy Special: fried egg and cheese on ciabatta ($6), with bacon ($1), and choice of coffee, tea, or OJ. I went with coffee (note: refills are 50 cents extra). My wife went with The Messenger: freid egg, bacon, gorgonzola spread and homemade apple butter spread on ciabatta ($6). Our two-year-old had Honeyed Yogurt, which inexplicably topped all orders: honey yogurt, granola, cinnamon, and season fruit that included strawberries, bananas, apples, and maybe something else. We also sprang for a croissant.

Service is low-key: order at the counter, get your water (from a cooler by the door), get your highchair (by the bathroom), get your table (while you can). At around 9:30 a.m., business was steady with locals, moms and their kids, but virtually no University of Portland students, who Evan Dohrmann says have yet to discover this place.

Lunch also looked worth returning for, including the curious buttermilk milkshake. Weekends look like the best time for specials to augment the limited menu. And if you come by after 3 p.m. on bike, pedal up to the bike-thru window—one of several bike-friendly nods (you can also save 50 cents on beverages I think if you bike in). The bike repair gear that they carried in the bakery case during the early days were nowhere in sight, and probably just as well from an appetite standpoint.

There's more to this story, including some interesting notes on the proprietors' backgrounds, but I'm tired of typing, and perhaps just a little bitter: As the new "Storefronts" columnist for the inPortland section of The Oregonian, I found this place and decided to feature it in week two of the column. I drove out there. Bought breakfast. Took notes. Snapped pictures in the rain. And at 10:30 a.m. I got home to crank it out for a noon deadline.

And at 11:30 a.m., while checking the cafe's hours on the Web site, I happened across a link to The Oregonian, which I clicked out of curiosity to what they might be linking to. Turns out it was an article on the place, written by Tom Hallman, Jr., on September 27. A clever little piece, with plenty of witty observations.

Not only did that sink my story and blow the deadline (I had already been beaten out of another Storefronts feature on another new cafe that Laura Gunderson had gotten to first), it left me with no backup.

In the end, I found somewhere else (albeit less cool) to write about. And breakfast was still worth the price of entry.

Labels: bike, food, Little Red Bike Cafe, Portland, restaurants

"Hell's Kitchen" continues to be a welcome beacon on the lonely seas of Monday night, basic cable. But following last night's episode (#305), a few things became evident:

1. Julia (far left) is the class act on the "Red Team." Waffle House jokes aside, she's the steady hand in the kitchen. In episode #304's taste challenge, she dodged the bullet, having to identify boiled potato, fried chicken, and something else (carrot?) while blindfolded. The teaser for next week's episode suggests that the hayseed flies when she has to work with lobster, but for now, she looks fine.
2. Melissa was a nasty double-cross since episode one. Last night the girls turned on her...sort of. Bonnie talked tough...until Melissa came onto the patio (at which point she cried, I think). Dumping her on the men's team was genius on the part of the producers.
3. The men's team is fine. Nothing urgent there. They might even take Melissa under their wing, at least for a week, and only if Rock doesn't drown her in the stock pot.
4. The casting for this season was a disaster. Who are these people? The cast, by in large, lacks personality, flair, cooking ability, good looks, and any other defining characteristic. The token oddballs weren't endearing, just...weird. (Aaron? He mostly sweated, and blacked out. If I cared, I search online for rumors of his demise, but I don't.) The men's team is barely discernible from one another. The women are a faint wisp of last year's crew. Seriously: was this a completely random selection? Granted, Chef Ramsay doesn't leave much room for others in his kitchen, but can you really imagine anyone actually running a restaurant? Teriyaki cart, maybe.
5. If I have to eat one more bite of pea risotto, I'm going to. But I won't like it.
6. Some of the show's most special moments: when strangers wander up to the window during dinner service. Ramsay screaming "giraffe" at one tall woman, very nice.

More at http://www.fox.com/hellskitchen/index.htm. Don't forget: Monday's at 9/8 Central. On FOX.

Labels: food, Gordon Ramsay, Hell's Kitchen, television

First blueberry of the season, at least on this homestead. Much riper than the low-hanging (and green) fruit that a certain two-year-old later ate.

Reminds me of two separate pitches to two certain publications, about the blueberry boom. Both wrinkled their noses, passed, and then later ran articles on the blueberry boom. Ah, the bitter taste of sour, er, green berries.

Seriously though, this was the FIRST ONE of the season. (The hushed whisper of wow echoes around the world.)

Labels: blueberries, farm, food, Oregon

The sweet taste of Bings. Dusted with the essence of a gravel lot. Under the watchful eye of Oney.

Photo taken in beautiful Elsie, Oregon.

Labels: cherries, farm, food, Oregon

Heading down to the Saturday Farmers' Market in Hollywood (NE Portland), with new, bigger family in tow, I pass Beaumont-Wilshire resident F.F. and stop to talk. It's 9 a.m., but she's already been down the hill to the market, which opens at 8.

"I was freaked out about the strawberries," she confessed. Freaked out that they might run out. Ridiculous? Yes, but not on F.F.'s part. These are the Hoods, Oregon strawberries in full season right now, sweeter and more fragile than their leathernecked southern California cousins. These berries weren't made for shipping...they start to dissolve right in your hands.

As we neared the market, one person after another came trundling out, carrying flats and half-flats of these little red devils.

So we plunked down $13 for the half-flat...six pints (prices that I saw ranged from $12.50-$15, and with pints running between $2.50 and $3 or $3.50).

They didn't look like anything special. Lots of dirt, a range in color from almost pink to almost purple, lots of shapes, some grown together. And invariably some already past prime.

I bought some horchata from a microentrepreneur. It needed a little ice. I found some.

Too many people couldn't resist eating the berries as they walked, subjecting me to something as uncomfortable as nails being filed: the image of someone biting into a large strawberry, all the way up to their gums. Bleh.

At home, washed them and went out to check our own berries (we've since eaten the three ripest). Soon, we will have our own berries. And, if this year's garden comes through, our own white beets, bibb lettuce, and fennel among other things that will probably either rot or get forgotten until mid-September.

The berries? The hype may be overripe, but the flavor is pretty sweet.

Serve with: Angel Food Cake, from a box, and Chocolate Ice Cream, from a box.

Labels: farm, food, Portland

The biggest disappointment of last night's season debut for the FOX network's "Hell's Kitchen" was the discovery that this was Season 3. It stands to follow, then, that last season was...Season 2?

So I missed an entire run?

"Hell's Kitchen," the reality show in which a dozen would-be chef's compete for the adoration (and restaurant) of Chef Gordon Ramsay, was hands-down the best reason to watch television last summer. And that includes Basic Cable (take THAT! WGN! Hallmark Channel! E!!).

The format: twelve goofs caught in a cross between "The Apprentice" and "America's Next Top Model," with men and women divided into the Blue (bleu?) and Red teams. They compete to prepare and deliver dinner service to cheeseballs in LA that get to ham it up for the camera. "We ordered over an hour ago and don't want any more bread!" one table complained.

Not sure what the oddsmakers make of this season's crew, but few appear to have any real cooking chops. Early sentimental favorite for me: Julia, 28, Short-Order Cook, roundly dismissed by the others with, "She cooks at the Waffle House."

You ever eat at the Waffle House? If you had, you wouldn't say something stupid like that. Instead, you'd say, "God DAMN, get Tiffany, 27, Kitchen Manager, off that station and let this girl fry them quail eggs!"

And then the producers would cut that part out to make it look like Julia STILL didn't have a friend in the world. Hey, that's life in the real (TV) world.

What's the appeal of the show, anyway? Well, swearing, for one (it works for HBO). Lots of bleeping, blurring, and things that are "ucking" this and "ucking" that (nice glottal stop at work there). But also, it's action packed, and the tasks seem more gerund than the jackassery that Trump puts his apprenticii through (though by the end of the season we know who could best organize a car wash...it's always the cheerleaders, isn't it?). And I think it's safe to say that this batch has been selected for something besides looks...or talent...geographic distribution maybe?

The real question: how long before Ramsay calls some befuddled greaseburner "Donkey!"? Not long.

Two literary-related notes:
Bill Buford's excellent April 2, 2007, New Yorker article ("The Taming of the Chef") on Ramsay shows that the act is either real or at least consistent. (Worth reading online here...although most Salvage Heart readers probably still have the April 2 New Yorker piled at the foot of the bed as they doggedly make their way through back issues...is it March yet?)

Ramsay's goal was to land three stars in the Guide Michelin for his new New York restaurant, Gordon Ramsay at The London. A native of Glasgow, his own cooking (rarely reflected in "Hell's Kitchen") celebrates English cuisine, "for two centuries the most mocked cuisine in the world," writes Buford.

Ramsay came to cooking after discovering Marco Pierre White (or a photo of him). And it just so happens that White has a new book out this May, The Devil in the Kitchen: Sex, Pain, Madness and the Making of a Great Chef. The relevance of White, according to Buford, is that it gave Ramsay something no other top British chefs had had: a Brit as a mentor rather than a Frenchman.

But back to the business at hand. Melissa, 28, Line Cook? Wow, if she was a skillet she could fry both sides of the egg at the same time...told Tiffany to her face that she wouldn't get kicked out, then put her up as a weak link. Tiffany, I think you're alone now...there' doesn't seem to be anyone around.

*************
Hell's Kitchen, FOX, Mondays at 9pm (check local listings)

Labels: authors, food, Gordon Ramsay, Hell's Kitchen, journalism, television

This bastion of beef, located on SE Sandy just as your chugging up the hill and through a couple of 8-way intersections, is nondescript enough to drive by a thousand times without stopping. Sandwich places? I don't get it. Soup, sandwich, salad...forget it. If I'm going out to lunch, I want a hot lunch, something with melted cheese. Lettuce with mayonnaise. Soup as the option I bypass for french fries.

How about a hot sandwich?

How about it. I've eaten at Michael's Italian Beef and Sausage Co. a couple of times now, and I can't explain why not more? When you walk in, you get the definite feeling that you're somewhere, that the customers are regulars, that the people behind the counter get it, and that the boss is a guy up to his elbows in sauce and pushing a mop when he has to.

Here's the drill: Walk in, get in line at the counter. DO NOT reach over, several signs warn...in fact there are more signs telling you not to reach over the counter (though never explaining why you'd want to) than there are postings about the menu, which can be found piled at the cash register. Many don't need one. I did.

The Chicago Style Italian Beef sandwich comes hot, "roasted top round sliced thin & marinated in its own gravy, stuffed in Italian bread with choice of peppers and onions." You get that as a whole ($7.00) or half ($3.70). I took the whole. I went with the hot peppers ("medium hot marinade with aged slices of chili peppers, carrots, celery & garlic") and the onions, grilled.

Fries with that? Sure. Shoestring in Canola ($1.60). Drink? Coke. Large (24oz., $1.30). The whole deal put me right under $10, but the deal is, cash gets a 5% discount. In my mind, this was one of those no-credit hold-outs for awhile, and the attitude is right (they pass on their credit costs to you...the cash incentive). Credit put me up over $10.

I've gradually lost my grip on the hope for a $5 lunch. Once my limit, the $5 no longer gets all the bells and whistles. You might get a sandwich, maybe a drink, but no chips. If you do, something either ain't right between the slices or behind the counter (or dollars are not the currency of choice). At least that's the deal when minimum wage is over $7/hour.

Still, $10 is a lot for everyday lunch. But do I regret it on this day?

I sat at an island bar, surrounded by short stools with red vinyl tops. A woman near me asked about dipping fries in mustard. I recommended it. She'd had mustard on eggs, and recommended that, then went back to her conversation that involved something related to church groups and her own lack of transportation.

Sandwich comes hot, wrapped in paper and cut in half. It's a little like french dip, and outstanding. Not the day to wear a white shirt, but I made it out clean. Fries were above average. Coke hit the spot.

Other items on the menu involve meatballs, sausages, fried shrimp, and so forth. The veggie cold sandwiches have the only themed names: "The Assassin" and "The Machine Gunner." Kids get their own sandwiches and their own onions.

On the radio, KMHD, a jazz and blues station played. The DJ came on and thanked the audience and the segment sponsor, Michael's Italian Beef and Sausage Co. A woman behind the counter said "Hey, I know that place," and then resumed taking orders.

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Labels: Eater, food, Portland