I’ve previously mentioned that Aldo and I visited Portland in midsummer, but it’s only now as the East Coast leaves begin to yellow that I have the chance to write about our remarkable dinner at Beast.
Let me start by saying that earlier in the afternoon of that day—a beautiful day—we were driving our rental car along the Columbia River Gorge when a feral cat darted across in front of us, practically sacrificing its life beneath our wheels, and for what? To pounce on and sink its teeth into the thin meat of of a hapless squirrel that sat in the sunshine in a clearing on the far side of the road.
Anyone who has dined at Beast will pounce instinctively, like that feral cat, at a chance to eat there again. Even if it means dodging traffic. And the meat is plentiful.
It says as much in the name, Beast, which suggests strictly carnivorous fare from the stockyards of Chicago. Or perhaps a refectory for Notre Dame linemen the night before the big game. Or, more in keeping with our own lifestyle, a sex club modeled on the labyrinth of the minotaur. Doesn’t that sound like a delight? It is no place for the vegan. It is, however, a destination for anyone who wants to savor a carefully constructed piece of culinary performance art, exquisite and yet also robust.
The restaurant is located in a nondescript neighborhood, off an intersection containing other plain-wrapped restaurants. A few houses away we passed a lawn where a broken stove had been plunked down without ceremony, like an old relative, with a sign saying it could be had for fifty bucks. Beast itself had a look just one step up from a garage, with a front door protected by metal bars. In New York, it would suggest a perfect Mafia front. Or an Italian restaurant for a Mafia front.
Inside, the restaurant was a dark open room with a slate-black-tiled open kitchen. The back wall also had the look of slate, and was scribbled all over with catchphrases in chalk. I should have written the catchphrases down, because now I can’t recall them except to say they were somewhere between MFK Fisher and Bob Dylan. There were but two tables, arranged perpendicularly, and the staff took a few minutes to manage the somewhat tricky business of optimizing the seating plan.
Aldo said it all reminded him of a) the workhouse dining-hall scene in “Oliver Twist” and b) the restaurant in that scary Peter Greenaway movie “The Cook, the Thief, the Wife & Her Lover.” Neither of those, frankly, are the happiest associations one might have before embarking on a five- or six-course prix-fix meal with wines, but he had a point: The air of being part of an “experience” created a sense of heightened anticipation and hunger—with, besides, the shadow fear of a coming letdown.
And then what should be the amuse bouche but a small bowl of steaming gruel topped with crème fraiche and diced chives?
Kidding! On the contrary, the meal built superbly, happily, from one course to the next. A lobster bisque with sweet yellow corn and—wonderful touch of texture and sweetness—cantaloupe; a charcuterie plate that contained a small, absolutely perfect “bonbon” of foie gras with sauternes gelee, no bigger than a thimble, sitting on a demure little cracker; a sizeable lamb-loin chop that, if served in a Manhattan tasting menu, would have been carved up to serve eight portions; a seared scallop with heirloom tomatoes—the one course, I have to say, that has left no lasting impression on me, except that it was served with a nasturtium remoulade, which is a pretty-sounding phrase; and an exceptionally fine, exceptionally balanced plate of artisan cheeses.
We didn’t have dessert. We’re gays.
A note on the wines. They were thoughtfully chosen to complement the courses, and perfectly suited to midsummer dining. This is not a restaurant showcasing the prevalent taste for the native Willamette grape. The wines were Old World and mostly French, especially from Marsannay. This appellation, known mostly for its roses, produces no sought-after grand crus; mostly light, medium-bodied and agreeable wines. All the bottles, save for the sweet Bordeaux for dessert, were from the 2005 vintage. The Dom. Roy Marsannay blanc “Les Champs Perdrix,” a wine from a significant parcel (or lieu-dit) west of the Route de Grand Cru that runs along the village of Marsannay, presented a racy, Chablis-like counterpoint to the creamy lobster bisque. The Dom. Fougeray du Beauclair rose matched perfectly with the charcuterie plate. Even the foie gras bonbon contrasted nicely with the rose’s fruitiness. This same domain’s St Jacques blanc did not overwhelm the scallop; if anything, they joined together to sing a mellow low-key note. Best of all, the polished Fred Loimer Langenlois Terrassen Pinot Noir made an elegant Austrian match with the lamb loin-chop. For dessert, the guest was offered a Loupiac or Maury, depending on his preference for cheese or chocolate.
Beast probably would be a bust in Manhattan, where people wouldn’t be expected to seek out unusual culinary experiences in odd residential neighborhoods in unprepossessing little shacks. Nor would they line up outside before being seated, as we did, unless it were for a highly praised, hard-to-get off-off-Broadway show. And the economics of big-city dining would pose problems for a multi-course menu (no subsitutions) served in generous portions in a small room, two seatings per night. But in Portland it works, beautifully. This was practically the best meal we’d had all year.
