Portland Eats: Le Pigeon

“No reservation?” No, we don’t have a reservation.

“Hmmm, it’ll be about an hour and a half, but there is a cool bar just down the street where you can wait,” the host said. He took our number, promising to call if a table opened up earlier. It didn’t.

Turns out, the chef’s girlfriend is a bartender at the cool bar. Also turns out, after just one meal at Portland’s Le Pigeon, I’d likely wait an eternity for another shot at Chef Gabriel Rucker’s riff on American bistro cuisine.

At 28, Rucker has already snagged a Food & Wine Best Chef nod (2007) and a James Beard nomination for Rising Star (2009, an award that ultimately went to Nate Appleman of A16 in San Francisco.)

In a town known for quirky, independent restaurants, Le Pigeon could easily be the mascot. The space is tight, maybe less than 10 tables, plus front-row seating for 10 at the L-shaped bar overlooking Rucker’s exhibition kitchen.

It is here where Rucker and his band of cooks (a trio, counting Rucker) perform nightly for an adoring public, including a visiting chef the night we scored coveted bar stools.

The menu changes frequently, reflecting what’s fresh at area farmers’ markets. If Rucker is playful with guests at the foot of his stage — and he does banter back-and-forth — he’s laser-serious when it comes to putting food on the plate, tasting here and there, correcting flavors with a pinch of this or a splash of that. Just six starters and seven entrees populate the wisp of a menu.

The visiting chef tastes the foie gras topped jelly donut ($16), proclaiming the foie gras “excellent” even if he wasn’t thrilled with the donut.

He should have ordered the sashimi-quality sliced scallops, dusted with minced tarragon and orange zest, paired with a fennel and radish confit and a dollop of flying roe dotted butter ($15).

With choices like beef cheek bourguignon ($21) and veal blanquette ($25), the Strawberry Mountain Farms burger ($9) might seem pedestrian, but it’s quite the opposite, paired with duck-fat fried chunks of potatoes. The charred, square bun soaks up beefy juices and drippy, aioli-dressed iceberg.

How can you not order pigeon ($27) when, after all, the place is named for the bird? Would I have ordered it if it had merely said “squab?” Probably not.

A bed of butter-soaked greens mixed with shiitakes propped up a square of toasted brioche smeared with liver pate.

Which in turn, held tender medallions of dark-meat bird with a sweet and tangy red pepper jam. Poor thing — its legs and feet precariously balanced on  the bowl’s lip.

Edgy, fun and utterly delicious.

But perhaps the biggest showstopper of the evening was the signature dessert: apricot-studded cornbread, topped with maple ice cream, chewy bacon nuggets and a drizzle of viscous maple syrup.

The cornbread, coarsely textured and caramelized on top, might be the best dessert I’ve tasted all year (and as the dessert columnist for PHOENIX Magazine, I’ve had my share of desserts.)

Rightly so, Le Pigeon attracts foodies from near and far. And seven nights a week, Chef Rucker tends to his faithful flock. No, not the tattoos on his right forearm — his guests, the ones who gather at his stoop, for just another bite with the show.

Le Pigeon
738 East Burnside
Portland, OR
(503) 546-8796
www.lepigeon.com

How to Cook Collard Greens

Meandering through the Portland Farmers Market, I spotted this stack of beautiful collard greens. The bug holes on the right only endeared it to me more. I mean, if the bugs won’t eat it, should I?

Growing up in West Texas, my mother’s garden overflowed with mustard greens, a bitter, curly-leafed green that I wasn’t particularly fond of. Years later, I tasted my first collard greens and I liked the flavor (less bitter) and texture (smoother) much better.

You don’t have to cook them Southern-style (to death, with ham or bacon fat and onions), but cooked this way they do go hand-in-hand with hot cornbread (or is it corn bread?)

I cut a “V” just like I did here on Swiss chard, and roll the leaves into a cigar and then cut them into strips, just like I blabbed about here with basil, only with greens, I cut thick, 1-inch ribbons.

Collard greens are a staple in many southern  — especially soul food — restaurants, yet they generally don’t cut the tough stems out before cooking. For me, it’s paramount. I hate tough stems swimming in a pile of earthy greens, and even worse, I hate stringy stems — which is what happens when the greens are cooked long enough to soften them.

Now we need a little onion for flavor. I used a leek for no other reason than I had one. Feel free to use whatever onion suits your fancy: white, yellow, red, scallions, whatever.

Of course you need some fat to saute the leeks and greens in. I keep a jar of bacon grease in the fridge for just such purposes.  Who doesn’t love bacon grease? (Don’t answer that if you are a vegetarian, please.)

You could fry up some bacon strips, using the rendered fat for sauteing, and then crumble the bacon as a garnish for the greens. Heck, most folks just leave the bacon in the pot, simmering it right along with the greens. Me? I prefer adding it as a “crunch” topping.

Unlike Swiss chard and spinach, collard greens need a bit more cooking reach tenderness. And in the South, “a bit more” means hours. You don’t have to cook them that long, although most southern cooks I know cook them f-0-r-e-v-e-r. Food scientist and “culinary sleuth” Shirley Corriher (CookWise, BakeWise) says that extended cooking isn’t kind to the flavor of collard greens and other members of the Brassica family (broccoli, cabbage, turnips, etc.) And she’s from the South!

Simmering collards in liquid is crucial for a silky texture.You can use water, or for more flavor, chicken stock or broth.

I’d show you a final picture of the cooked greens but I didn’t take one. Why? Because they’re ugly. Dull, army-green doesn’t make for a pretty picture, although I have to say that this picture honors the humble green as best as can be expected.

Even if cooked collard greens don’t win any beauty contests, they certainly do win as a delicious side dish, perfectly suited for any southern meal from pork chops to fried catfish. Don’t forget the slice of hot, buttered cornbread. Or is it corn bread?

Southern-Style Collard Greens

Serves 2, maybe 3 *

1 bunch collard greens
1 leek (or 1 cup chopped onion)
1 tablespoon bacon fat
4 cups water or low-sodium chicken broth
Pinch of sugar
2 to 3 tablespoons cider vinegar
1/2 (or more) teaspoon of hot pepper sauce
Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

Cut the stems out of each green leaf in a “V.” Roll the leaves into a cigar and cut into thick ribbons, about 1-inch thick. Dunk the greens in a water bath, drain, and spin dry in a salad spinner.

Cut the top off the leek. Cut the remaining part of the leek in half, lengthwise and rinse under cold running water, fanning the leek layers to remove any trapped dirt. Pat dry. Cut each half crosswise into 1/4-inch half-moons.

Melt the bacon fat in a large saucepan over medium-high heat. Add the leeks and saute until just tender, about 3 to 4 minutes. Add the greens, tossing occasionally to wilt, about 3 to 4 minutes.

Pour in water or chicken broth and stir in pinch of sugar (the greens won’t be completely submerged). Bring to a boil. Reduce heat to low and cover. Simmer until tender, about 40 minutes.

Stir in the vinegar and hot sauce. Season with salt and pepper to taste. Add more vinegar or hot sauce to your personal tastes. To serve, you can either portion out the greens in individual ramekins to include some of the pot likker (cooking liquid) or you can drain them and put them directly on the serving plate.

*If you plan to double this recipe, you don’t need to double all the ingredients, just the collard greens. For the remaining ingredients, use 1-1/2 times the amount instead of 2 times the amount.

Pen & Fork wins Food & Travel Blog Award

Most people would say that they love to travel and they love to eat. I count myself lucky to be able to travel and eat and then write about it, sharing my experiences with others. For me, the journey begins with a fork.

Today I learned that my blog was a finalist in the Tripbase Blog Awards 2009.

Food and travel writing has been a big part of my culinary writing career, and is the basis for the three travel destination cookbooks I wrote. Now I relish in bringing travel and food experiences to others through this blog.

I’m extremely honored that such a prestigious travel service (which was recognized by Travel + Leisure Magazine as the top travel website in 2008) has recognized my blog.  So, thank you, Tripbase.com.

Who I really want to thank is you…for coming along with me.

Portland Eats – The Farm Cafe

The Farm Cafe wasn’t on my original list of restaurants to visit when we arrived in Portland for a week of non-stop eating.

I’d never heard of it, although I’m not sure why, since I researched the restaurant scene fairly well (obsessively, if you ask my dining partner), and already had more restaurants on my radar than open slots for dining occasions.

The Farm Cafe wasn’t in Zagat’s 2009 America’s Top Restaurants guide or the Portland guide book I was using. All I can say is thank goodness we did stumble upon it.

And stumble is the operative word. The restaurant is tucked just off a side street, well hidden behind overgrown foliage. The rooster sign is a dead giveaway that the cuisine is focused on the farm.

The restaurant is in an old Victorian house, although the back patio and bar are new additions. They don’t take reservations unless you have a party of six, so my best advice is gather five of your closest friends (or completely strangers) and get on their books.

The menu is short and sweet, with just a few appetizers, salads and six main courses. But then there is a slip of paper inside the folded menu with a few specials. It was hot enough to sample the chilled cucumber and caper cream soup, but since this would be my only experience on this trip, I wanted go light on the appetizer.

Rosemary-roasted hazelnuts ($5) sounded intriguing and the perfect way to kick off the evening. We normally snack on nuts with a cocktail while I cook dinner, so it seemed fitting to begin there.

You don’t see too many “nuts” on restaurant menus, and these promised a “secret house recipe involving brown sugar and Tabasco.” Whew, not kidding on the Tabasco. These sweet-hot nuts will wake up any dulled taste bud. I will work on recreating these nuts at some point, because that would be cheaper than hopping a plane back to Portland and unfortunately, these nuts — in just one sitting — have become yet another addiction for me.

A roasted half chicken special ($18) featured an organic, pasture-raised bird from the Rain Shadow El Rancho farm in Scio, Oregon. The skin could have been a tad crispier for my taste, but I had no complaints with the juciness, or the parsley and thyme flavor. The orzo pasta salad underneath was studded with fresh fava beans, red onion and a hint of basil.

Roasted baby carrots, grilled zucchini and yellow squash and saffron-scented rice served as a bed for a coriander-speckled grilled halibut. The garlic and parsley pistou added additional flavor, although the perfectly cooked fish didn’t need any help at all.

While the menu’s sunken chocolate soufflé cake is probably extraordinary, the Chambord and Oregon Duke blueberry tart special ($7) seemed a more appropriate dessert, given the 4th of July holiday. Creamy, rich mascarpone, whipped with honey and tinged pink from the raspberry liqueur, served as a fluffy pillow for the fat, juicy berries.

Don’t worry, we didn’t leave this bite, no-sir-ree. Just wanted you to see the last, glorious morsel.

Sometimes, you can plan too much. In hindsight, I’m grateful that my original plan went awry and our wandering led us straight to the Farm….Cafe.

The Farm Cafe
10 SE 7th Aveune
Portland, OR
(503) 735-3276

Kalua Pork

It started with a tweet from @ShareYourTable, and a fuzzy shot of a brownie from The Pineapple Room, Alan Wong’s “ladies-who-lunch” spot tucked in the back of Macy’s in Waikiki’s tony Ala Moana Shopping Center.

I tweeted back that the best reason to hop a plane to Honolulu was The Pineapple Room’s Kalua “BLT.”

Or maybe the black rock and white sand beaches, or a mai tai on the Halekulani patio, but no, no, really, that pork is worth the trip alone. And voila! The next tweet I got was a link to Share Your Table’s oven-roasted Kalua Pork.

As luck would have it, I had a pork roast in the fridge that was destined for a little achiote paste and sour orange juice, a la cochinita pibil, but I thought, maybe I could do a little Hawaiian hula instead.

Kalua pork, the centerpiece at so many Hawaiian celebrations, is just another version of pulled pork, like the Yucatan’s cochinita pibil or Southern BBQ pulled pork.

I happened to have a jar of Hawaiian pink salt, called Alaea, a sea salt that gets its pinkish hue from the red clay where it’s harvested.

I didn’t have the banana leaves the recipe called for to wrap the pork, although these days they aren’t hard to hunt down. Check in the freezer section (or even in the fresh produce section) of Latin or Asian markets.

I did have a bottle of liquid smoke on hand, a subject that was tweeted back and forth last week, namely “what the heck is it and is it safe to eat?” (Here’s the answer.)

Armed with the essential ingredients, I set about recreating the Kalua Pork recipe from @ShareYourTable, with a few minor adjustments to accommodate what I had on hand, and now, I’m sharing it with you.

I have to confess that I modified the key ingredient — the pork.

Kalua pork is made with pork butt (also called picnic shoulder). It’s a gloriously fat-laden hunk of swine, but I had a top loin roast in the fridge so that’s what I used. It probably resulted in a slightly drier end product, but I can tell you that it is still lip-smacking delicious.

Oven-Roasted Kalua Pork

(adapted from Share Your Table)

Serves 6

2-1/2 pounds top sirloin pork roast (or, for real decadence, pork butt)
1 tablespoon of Hawaiian Pink Alaea salt (or sea salt or kosher salt)
2 cups water
2 tablespoons liquid smoke
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper

Heat the oven to 500°F. Rub the pork with the salt and place in a roasting pan. Mix the water and liquid smoke together and pour into the pan (but not over the pork or you’ll wash off the salt.) Cover tightly with foil.

Roast for 30 minutes, then turn the oven heat down to 325°F. Roast for 2-1/2 hours. Remove from the oven and let stand, covered, for 10 minutes. Remove foil and shred pork with two forks. Sprinkle with black pepper and toss again.

(NOTE: At this point, you can eat it as it is, or mix in your favorite BBQ sauce.)

How to Peel Ginger

Gingerroot (sometimes just referred to as fresh ginger) is a rhizome plant that grows horizontally, with green shoots above ground and knobby stems below. What grows beneath the soil line is what we use in the kitchen. The shoots are generally not sold, although sometimes you might find them at farmers markets with a small knob of the stem attached.

Open my teeny freezer anytime of year and I guarantee you that you’ll find a plastic bag, or two, of ginger. One bag will contain grated ginger, the other sliced coins of ginger.

Why? Because ginger is a secret weapon for flavoring stir fries, rice dishes, coconut milk-based soups and a myriad of other dishes. Its pungent heat also counterbalances strong fish flavors, too, making it a natural flavor component for tuna and salmon.

Invariably, I’ve bought more than I need at any given time, so packaging it up for later is the only sensible thing to do.

I will likely get a visit from the “ginger police” after this comment, but I’m going to say it anyway. I break off  a knob of ginger right there in the grocery store for two reasons. One, I don’t want to buy a piece as big as my hand, but the main reason I do it is because I’m looking for a sign of how fresh the ginger is.

If I see a pale green or gray ring just inside the skin, it means that the ginger’s been sittin’ around awhile. It’s still OK to use, but it won’t be as juicy or sharp as ginger without the “age ring.”

Peeling ginger (which I think is essential but some chefs do not) is best done with a spoon, which scrapes off just the thin skin. It’s a little trick I learned from watching Martin Yan on Yan Can Cook. A few years ago, we were seated next to each other during a cookbook signing – Walters/Yan, alphabetically, you know and Ann Willan was on the other side of me. I was a bit star-struck. Anyway, I thanked Yan for showing me the easiest way to peel ginger, which leaves much more of the flesh than a knife or peeler does. How often do you get to thank one of your favorite PBS cooking stars?

After peeling the ginger, grate it with a microplane or ginger grater or slice it into thin coins. (I use the coins for flavoring broths and steeping with tea.)

Pop the ginger into freezer zipper bags, label with the date and that it’s ginger, lest you forget, and put them in the freezer. The freezer life is about three, maybe four months. Anytime you come across a recipe for fresh ginger, you can use your freezer stash instead of running to the store. I’m not going to lie and say that it is just as good as fresh – it’s not – but it’s beats no ginger, and dry, ground ginger is simply not a substitute for fresh (or frozen) ginger.

Gingerroot (Zingiber officinale)

Uses: culinary and medicinal (aids in digestion, helps with nausea)

Flavor: sharp, peppery

Buy: tight, smooth-skinned knobs

Store: in the refrigerator for a couple weeks or frozen for up to four months

Not Your Typical Fried Rice

I bet you thought, by the title, that this post was going to be about fried rice. It is, sort of. Rice will be fried, but not in the way that a traditional, Asian fried rice dish is.

Yes, we’re starting with cooked rice, an egg, of course, and other veggies, but that’s where the similarities end. Today, we’re cooking up rice fritters.

With three cups of leftover rice from the Bamboo Rice post, I thought about making a traditional fried rice dish, but then I stumbled upon Gina DePalma’s charming post on spinach fritters on Serious Eats and I wondered if I could replace the flour with rice, but lots of it.

Yep. It works.

Gina talks about the virtues of mature, leafy spinach (namely, it tastes like spinach) vs. the bagged (but convenient) baby spinach.

I’m using mature spinach for this recipe, even if it involves a little work, like removing the stems and a couple – or three -  dunks in a water bath to remove the grit.

For our fritters, we need to lightly cook the spinach and squeeze out most of the water so the fritters aren’t soggy. You could use frozen spinach to save a step — just need to thaw and really squeeze out all the water.

Isn’t it amazing how much spinach shrinks when you add a little heat? Besides the spinach, cooked rice and egg, anything else you want to throw into the mix is totally up to you.

If I were you, I’d include some sort of, what we in the food biz call, “aromatics.” Not sure why we call them aromatics – more appropriately they should be called taste-o-matics – I’m referring to garlic and onions. They do smell good, but flavor is their main purpose.

I used scallions. I also threw in a chopped jalapeno because I like to spice things up a bit, and well, everything tastes better with a jalapeno – not to mention the generous dose of  vitamin C, given the jalapeno’s size.

The rice, spinach and other goodies go into a large bowl for mixing. I added just a smidgen (don’t you like that word?) of flour to help bind the mixture together, but when I say smidgen, I mean it. One tablespoon of flour for three whole cups of rice qualifies as a smidgen.

Be gentle with the mixing part so that the rice doesn’t become gummy. This is especially important if you are using a naturally sticky cooked rice like the bamboo rice I’m using.

Once it’s all gently mixed, it’s time to portion it out. Remember the ice cream scoop tip I gave you? (#7 on my top ten list of kitchen tools). Now is the time to pull it out of the drawer. I have five or six (maybe nine) different sizes. The #12 scoop is about 1/3 a cup.

(Scoops are sometimes labeled by size, imprinted oh-so-small on the inside of the scoop, on the metal lever that pushes the ice cream out of the scoop. The number refers to the number of scoops in a quart of ice cream.)

You can prepare the fritters up to this point and just refrigerate for a day if you’d like. If you plan to make these in advance, make sure that all the ingredients are cold before you mix them together to avoid that nasty food borne illness plague that results from foods not properly chilled.

Once they’re fried, you can also reheat them if you have any leftovers. I like to reheat them in a toaster oven at 325°F. for 12-15 minutes. You can use the microwave but say goodbye to that nice little crunchy crust if you do.

Spinach & Rice Fritters

Makes 7 (3-inch) fritters

8 to 10 ounces fresh spinach, trimmed, washed and dried
1 tablespoon olive oil
3 cups cooked rice
1 cup sliced scallions (white and light green parts)
1/2 cup grated Parmesan cheese
1 jalapeno, finely chopped, remove seeds for less heat (optional ingredient)
1 tablespoon flour
1 large egg, beaten
1 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon freshly ground black pepper
Olive oil for frying

Wilt spinach in 1 tablespoon of olive oil in a skillet over medium heat, about 3 or 4 minutes, turning with tongs as it wilts. (My, how it shrinks!) Scrape out into a bowl to cool. When cool enough to handle, squeeze out as much water as possible (Use paper towels if you’re so inclined). Roughly chop the spinach and place in a large bowl.

Stir in the rice, scallions, cheese,  and jalapeno (if using) into the bowl with the spinach. Sprinkle with the flour and fold in the egg, salt and pepper. Scoop into 1/3 cup portions (#12 ice cream scoop works well). Flatten to about 3/4-inch thick.

Heat enough oil in a skillet over medium-high heat to cover the bottom by about 1/8-inch. When sizzling hot, add fritters (work in batches so that you don’t overcrowd the pan). Fry until deep golden brown, about 5  to 6 minutes. Turn and brown other side, another 4 to 5 minutes. Remove to drain on paper towels.

J & G Steakhouse Summer Splash

Call me an old-soul, but I’ve always loved dining early. It leaves more of the evening for other things, like going to the movies (or just walking off the meal.)

J & G Steakhouse just unveiled a summer deal that will likely attract all souls: a three-course, prix fixe menu for only $35.

Looking at the menu, I’m thinking of several possible combinations.

1st course:
Heart of romaine Caesar salad
Steamed shrimp salad with Champagne vinaigrette
Sweet pea soup

2nd course:
Grilled black Angus flat iron steak with frites
Slow baked salmon with rhubarb compote
Lemon pepper chicken steak

3rd course:
Warm chocolate cake with caramel ice cream
Cheesecake with strawberry jam and rhubarb ice cream
Cinnamon Ice cream or any other number of flavors (oh, please let coconut be one of the flavors!)

This summer bonanza is available in the dining room seven evenings a week, from 5 p.m to 7 p.m.  It’s too light outside to enjoy the twinkling, city-lights view, but at that price, stick around for an after dinner drink just to watch the sun go down.

Visit www.jgsteakhousescottsdale.com to make a reservation.

Bamboo Rice

My mother was a sucker for new food products. Finding a Sunday coupon only fueled her enthusiasm for the quirky, bizarre foodstuffs that the Nabisco’s of the world throw at us.

I inherited this trait, albeit with a little different twist. If it’s “gourmet” and “expensive,” it will jump off the shelf and into my shopping cart.

How else could you explain the $13.49 bottle of bamboo rice that followed me home?

Yep, that’s right. $13.49 for 15 ounces of a Chinese, short-grain white rice infused with bamboo juice. Is bamboo juice scarce?

I do admit I was a bit breathless looking at the grassy green rice in the upscale, Urban Accents plastic bottle with a metal cap.

Directions are simple: Bring 1 cup of bamboo rice and 2-1/2 cups of water to a boil in a saucepan.

Reduce heat to low, cover and simmer 20 minutes. Remove from heat and let it rest, covered, for 5 minutes. Gently fluff with a fork. The result?

A pale, icy-green, soft, sticky rice.

The taste?  Mild, perhaps a bit grassy. Does it taste like bamboo? I have no idea. I’ve never tasted bamboo (canned shoots don’t count because they only taste like the can.) Between you and me, it could use a little salt, unless you’re serving it as a base for a naturally salty stir fry.

I could see using this rice for sushi, if you’re so inclined to make sushi at home (too much trouble for me, when we have a respectable sushi restaurant just minutes away).

The color would add an interesting element to any dish. I used it as a base for a fresh, brightly flavored stir fry, with tofu, shiitakes, sugar snaps, ginger, garlic, jalapeños, cilantro and a touch of hoisin.

Will I use it again? You betcha! Gotta get my money’s worth. Will I buy it again? Yeah, probably as a gift for my hard-to-find-gifts-for foodie friends.

My mom would have loved it, too. She never met a rice grain she didn’t like.

We have a winner!

Congratulations to Teresa!

My highly skilled-but-unpaid assistant randomly drew Teresa’s name out of the hat this morning at 7:19 a.m.

Teresa wins an autographed copy of The Great Ranch Cookbook.

Thanks to everyone who participated, and if you did participate, check your inbox because I sent you a little consolation prize email notice.