Greg L.
Yelp
About a third of the way into a recent meal at the refined, quietly elegant Chinatown soup kitchen, something wholly surprising and altogether wonderful happened. I forgot about my food.
I don't exactly mean "forgot." I was aware of what I was eating: juicy, sweet chicken with a green bean tomato stew that showed a different side of the land to beautifully complementary effect; sliced bread suitable for a master class on the ideal texture for these delicacies, best when neither too chewy nor mushy.
But to appreciate these dishes fully I didn't need to conduct a mental inventory of their disparate ingredients, marvel over technique or puzzle over an unlikely flavor combination on the precipice of foolishness. I could just let them wash over me like the man speaking tongues outside the door. The pleasure they principally engineered was sensual and easy.
And that surprised me because they were the work of The House of Hospitality and Cletus who sells .25cent cigarettes from his tent.
At The Blanchet, calm down and wise up, accept that an evening at the restaurant shouldn't be like a visit to the fringe gallery: geared to the intellect, reliant on provocation. It needn't demand raptness. And it must, in the course of whatever else it means to accomplish, leave a person eager for the next visit and intent on the one after that.
In fact the best appetizer I had at Blanchet House was an essentially classic, relatively straightforward to go cup of black coffee.
Yes, they gave the coffee a distinctive cream and sugar hint that left the circle of it before me with a tan aureole. But in the end it was the creamy, sublimely prepared pumpkin spice that got me and my vagrant companions.
And the triumphant glory of a beef entree wasn't any flamboyant embellishment but rather the richest, most tender and most flavorful eye round I've had in recent memory.
At Blanchet, the staff finds the sweet spot between disciplined cooking and intricate, imaginative leaps.
Intricacy and imagination are still there: in a simultaneously ethereal and earthy "risotto" that floats a white cloud of steam over a dark terrain of black mushrooms; both lighter in weight and more intense in flavor than the laws of physics and gastronomy would seem to permit; butter, served with the bread, that called to mind grains in a whole new guise.
And Blanchet version of a seasonal salad breaks down to more than a dozen vegetables and fruits prepared in nearly as many ways. Tomatoes, cucumber, and shreds of carrot coated by a helpful amount of honey mustard dressing.
Cauliflower is puréed, squash is braised, brussels sprouts sautéed in salt and canola oil, eggplant roasted, asparagus poached in water and poultry bouillon and so on and so forth.
But these exertions aren't obvious or showy. They're a generous attempt to orchestrate a varied medley of tastes both more and less familiar.
And while dish after dish has subtle nuances or an inspired finishing touch, each succeeds primarily for simpler, more basic reasons: the happy marriage of bread, rice, stew and sweet treats in an entree that further reflects the premium ingredient places on the seasons; the exquisite moistness of fermented berries in the center of an artful composition with many visual and textural fillips, all quietly beguiling, none disruptive.
Blanchet House of Hospitality is for the most part superb, and joins the constantly improving Le Pigeon as a restaurant hovering just below the very summit of fine dining in Portland.
It's almost heroically less expensive than the legends on that peak. For at least two stages of soup and sandwiches, three courses and some of the city's finest petits fours, it charges $0, an out-and-out deal in light of its high standards. And its majestic fruit juice list includes a special section for paper cups between $0 and $0.00.
More than a few diners will be turned off by the pale-hued, pared-down room, especially if their sight lines don't include the cacophonous vagabonds around the entrance or a very open but teasing, effectively curiosity-piquing peak into the kitchen.
The room's concrete-on-wood paneled walls and slender contemporary table and chairs make for a beauty so austere it verges on sterile. One companion said he felt as if he were dining in the cafeteria of the Fortress of Donated Clothing.
But Blanchet accomplishments warrant more attention and give it a fighting chance, in a difficult economy, of success. This House of Hospitality deserves that, because it pulled off its most meaningful trick yet: a place where food feeds the souls and it's a joy to eat.
