Chains of Love

O'Hare Macaroni Grill

According to Fortune, airport restaurants have been benefiting from longer waits and delayed flights. Bored passengers have been looking to time-killing activities like eating.

I know this first hand because just last Sunday I found myself at Macaroni Grill, a chain I’ve never frequented, inside O’Hare. Our airport van got us there way early and our flight was pushed back nearly an hour. The food court was packed solid and that wasn’t going to cut it anyway. I demanded a drink and er, atmosphere.

I loved the faux alfresco concourse view; if you have enough house chianti and squint you might imagine you’re glimpsing ruins of The Appian Way (which I just knew would have to be the name of a chain restaurant).

Behold the Sicilian: pepperoni, sausage, fontina and mozzarella. It wasn’t half-bad for an airport food diversion.

Romano’s Macaroni Grill * O’Hare Airport, Chicago, IL

Gustav’s Pub & Grill

Did I love it? Not as much as The Rheinlander next door.

There are two reasons to go to The Rheinlander: fondue and Victor Meindl. Gustav’s, the adjoining cuckoo clock-free bar-centric offshoot (now a chain), only has the melted cheese in its favor.

Victor Meindl was the gangly Christopher Kimball-looking gentleman in lederhosen and a jaunty Tyrolean cap that roved around the restaurant playing accordion on our almost annual Christmas visits in the ‘80s. He was still there when I celebrated high school graduation at The Rheinlander. And he was still there when I was in my mid-20s and I thought I was too cool for him when he asked if had any requests. I brushed him off with a “No, thank you” then irrationally changed my answer to “Do you still play that Consider Yourself at Home song?” (Oliver—and Victorian England in general—always gave me the creeps) While being serenaded the confusion between kitsch and genuine love overwhelmed me and my nervous laughing turned to tears. That was over a decade ago, and the last time I saw him.

The Rheinlander wasn’t always the source of joy. In college my sister and I came along with my dad and his new family for dinner. The rotund druggie (I’m not svelte but I’ve also never been a meth addict and assumed the two went together) step-sister who wore Tasmanian Devil t-shirts down to her knees, demanded extra mushrooms in brown sauce and they actually brought her more in a little dish and her uncle got rowdy and angry when the waitress wasn’t familiar with a whiskey/beer drink he’d had in Germany while in the service. I wasn’t 21 yet and couldn’t drown my sorrows publicly but you’d better believe that when we had to spend Christmas with these folks my sister and I pillaged their well-stocked liquor cabinet (at the prompting of our step-sister who showed us where her wealthy grandparents—millionaires from the garbage business, trash genuinely—kept the booze).

Why didn’t I check in on Victor on my no-longer-recent Labor Day weekend visit? I think I was scared that he wouldn’t be there. But I also didn’t have the time to commit to a full-blown German meal. I was meeting one of my oldest friends before flying back to NYC in a few hours and The Rheinlander is only five miles from the airport. I thought I’d give Gustav’s a go once I saw online that you can simply order the fondue and that it would be happy hour.

Ah, the fondue, simple, sharp, creamy and served with a mix of pumpernickel and paler bread, none of that healthy vegetables and apples nonsense. If I’m correct this was the $4.99 version from the happy hour menu. There is a mini pot for $2.99 and you can also order add ons like sausage an pesto. As an old-timer pesto is just wrong. I’m torn on the new-to-me Dungeness crab and roasted red pepper version because that could be good if done right.

Imade fondue twice in the past two weeks and went totally classic: Emmental, gruyere, kirsch (ok, no Chasselas—I can’t even pretend to be highbrow now that you know I used Charles Shaw Sauvignon Blanc) and obviously good enough to prepare for two different sets of people. The Rheinlander’s version contains only Swiss cheese and no cherry brandy, and it doesn’t even matter. You’ll eat it and you’ll like it. This is Portland not Geneva. Wow, it’s all coming back to me; chef Horst Mager, used to (and still does for all I know) regularly appear in cooking segments on local morning news shows. It looks like he even has a self-published (Portland, always with the diy spirit) cookbook on Amazon.

The fondue is all you need to know about the food at The Rheinlander. The rest is just not that remarkable. However, I still went wild with a pre-flight repast ordering up a slew of bar snacks that I don’t recall from the original stodgier menu. Things like schnitzel fingers with honey-mustard, ketchup and thousand island. Both the fries and cutlet could’ve been crisper.

The potato pancakes with smoked salmon, chopped hard-boiled eggs and capers and sour cream were pretty good. I got these to share but no one seemed interested in them.

James picked a sausage trio (brautrust, weisswurst and smoked bier sausage) with potatoes and two types of cabbage.

What I learned from Lema, the only person I’ve known for over 25 years that isn’t family: the last time she was in the Philippines she and her mom visited a mystic four hours from Manila whom they call Angie. She made them turnaround and drive back to the city for a belt to use in a spell. Details are blurred but I think it was her dad’s belt and he stopped cheating after the ritual was performed so it was well worth it. Also, her 80-something grandfather has a 30-year-old girlfriend, which no one questions. Supposedly, she wooed him with her cooking, though I imagine his US citizenship has something to do with it. Her aunt, who had been trying to come to America since the ‘80s, was finally granted permission, got here, hated it and promptly returned to the Philippines.

Meanwhile, I’m toying with idea of going to Manila in February. Years ago Lema told me that she knew someone who had his hand outside the window of a car and a passerby chopped it off to get his expensive watch (she also has an unbelievable tale about a prostitute and a randy tapeworm). I don’t wear a watch.

The tenuous Filipino/German connection: When I ate German food in Hong Kong I ordered the monstrous pork shank like the Filipinos at the table next to me (not like the Filipinas on stage singing “We Are Family”). They stared at me in a possessive way that questioned, “That American likes lechon?” But see, it wasn’t lechon because it was German food in Hong Kong. Neither of us owned it.

Gustav’s Pub & Grill * 5035 NE Sandy Blvd., Portland, OR

Financial District Baoguette

Did I love it? For Financial District Vietnamese? Yes, it's a boon.

As far as banh mi chains go, I’m probably more of a Paris Sandwich kind of girl. But I’ll take what I can get.

When I spoke to the unstoppable Michael Huynh for this Metromix year-end trend piece, he was envisioning Baoguette as the new Subway. And sure enough the new still-rough-around-the-edges storefront in the Financial District is just a few spaces over from a Subway. Five-dollar foot-longs had better watch out.

In the nearly three years I've worked way downtown pho has been high on my list of edibles missing in the neighborhood. I think I would be more jazzed if we hadn't been barraged with so much Vietnamese food this year. It is still a novelty in the Financial District, though. My only other venture to a Baoguette, the one on St. Mark’s, involved the beef soup not banh mi and it wasn’t half bad. Now that it’s brutally cold, soup seems smarter than sandwiches. But it wasn’t to be. Pho is on the menu but isn’t being served yet. They did have some prepared summer rolls in the refrigerated case, but it’s hard to get excited over them when it’s 20 degrees out.

The brown awning with an air conditioner punched through bore the Baoguette name held in place by blue tape. The long-necked lighting wasn’t having a good time either. Inside, the dry erase board on the wall was still shiny and unsullied. Same with the chalkboards above the counter. Rows of goldenrod Café du Monde coffee cans and full bottles of green-tipped Sriracha were the only design elements to be seen.

My old hard rule about $5 lunches shifted to $6 somewhere in the recent past and even that gets broken at least weekly for a Pret a Manger salad. Even those pick-a-mix salads where short little guys toss it in a plastic container for you come in around $7. It doesn’t mean I make a habit out of it, though. But hey, I had a little Christmas gift cash burning a hole in my pocket. I could spring for the $7 for a catfish sandwich just this once.

The flavors were an untraditional mishmash (honey mustard and sweet pickles?) not dissimilar to certain swampy Thai curries. I only saw a few jalapeño slices and no obvious red pools of Sriracha, but mouthfuls were hot, a dirty spicy that was compounded by the catfish’s natural earthy taste and tempered slightly by the strands of pickled red onions and sweet cucumber relish. I liked it more than I thought I would.

The catfish sandwich is akin to Num Pang's (which I never blogged about, oddly) but in some ways is preferable to me because I like a drier sandwich and this one uses honey mustard while the Cambodian one bulges with mayonnaise. It’s hard to disassociate honey mustard from chicken fingers, but the condiment wasn’t that jarring. I only recommend not trying on candy apple red lip glosses at Sephora on the corner right before biting into one of these sandwiches.

Baoguette does serve better food than the than closer-to-my-office banh mi cart and both charge $6 for the traditional Saigon sub (though I notice it’s only $5 at the Christopher St. Baoguette/Pho Sure while the catfish is $7 at both). I’ll likely return to check in on the pho at some point but as long as it’s in the 20s outside I’ll probably just walk the one block to the cart instead of the seemingly long (lots of tourist-dodging--I’ve given up on politeness and now barge through everyone’s posing in front of the Stock Exchange photos) five blocks to Maiden Lane.

Clearly, I’m not the only one who likes appropriating The New York Times' banh mi cross section photo.

Baoguette * Maiden Lane, New York, NY

Legal Sea Foods

Did I love it? Eh, it’s purely a platonic relationship.

Not that I make a habit of frequenting higher end seafood chains, but my recent experiences at McCormick & Schmick's and now at Legal Sea Foods (not so much Bonefish Grill—I’m sad that I didn’t have time to use my $10 ten-year [dating] anniversary gift card before it expired. If you don’t mind giving out personal information, you can get promotional gift cards on your birthday and anniversary for registering on their site. I get off on crap like this) have felt a little desolate and dreary. I’m not sure if it’s the economy or that I dine too late and the room has emptied out by the time I’m hungry (that’s what eating sliders for lunch at 4pm will do to you). At 9:30pm on this particular Saturday, there were only five or so other tables occupied while on my previous visit in 2004 there was a solid 45-minute-wait.

The shrimp dumplings--or rather wontons as they called them--were preferable to P.F. Chang’s version. The shrimp tasted like shrimp and the wakame salad was refreshing for a chain appetizer.

Bizarrely, I liked everything about this special except the fish. The mahi mahi was overcooked and a bit lifeless, but I liked the Spanish-meets-fall flavors of kale, raisins and sweet potatoes. I’m not sure where the cashew crust fits in to all of that. I probably would’ve used pecans because that seemed more logical.

I’ve never been to a restaurant, chain or otherwise, so aggressive in talking up its wine. I don’t need any prompting, as I’m one of those oddballs who always requires an alcoholic beverage with my chain dinners because I’m classy (one of the reasons why I don’t gravitate toward fast food unless it’s the daytime or super late night). But our server must’ve just attended a pep talk on promoting their Chilean wine, also boldly announced in an insert in the drink list. I think the Olive Garden servers are also supposed to highlight wine, but at least in the city they don’t even make an effort.

We appeased him by ordering a glass of Cono Sur Pinot Noir, then he went into a spiel about how you can now take unfinished bottles or wine home due to changes in the law. (I was just going to say that I’ve never seen anyone actually take advantage of this, but the other night two women at Bocca Lupo ordered a second bottle between them. I admired their moxie. They did take a majority of that bottle to go, though.) Eh, I started with a cocktail so one glass was fine.

Speaking of wine, the next time I’m at the Garden State Plaza I’m totally eating at the Napa Valley Grille. There’s something very twisted about attempting to emulate West Coast wine country inside a New Jersey mall. Even better though, would be eating at the Napa Valley Grille in Yountville. French Laundry? Never heard of it.

Legal Sea Foods * 1 Garden State Plaza, Paramus, NJ

Mercat Negre

Did I love it? The fried tapas made me happy. The rice could use some work. The rest was eh.

I’ve only been to Mercat on Bond Street once when they were having one of their visiting Catalonian chefs cooking a special menu. I liked the few things I ate well enough. How would the restaurant translate to Williamsburg?

It hasn’t exactly. The menu is much smaller, no cured meats or cheeses at all, though the room is airy, high ceilings, lots of wood and white brick. The service was typically Williamsburg—amiable, though harried and forgetful no matter how empty or busy—which I always mentally prep myself for and am rarely proven wrong.

Sure, it’s new and quickly became bustling. When I first entered there was only one other couple in the then cavernous feeling room, The Boy With the Arab Strap played in entirety. Soon enough, though, the bar stools filled, the din rose and two large parties had descended, one in the private second floor space and another group of fifteen inches from us at a long row of cobbled together two-tops.

The food is hit and miss. Stick with the fried snackier items and you’ll be fine. The croquetas, here spinach, pinenut and raisin in oblongs and shrimp in balls, were the highlight. Nearly greaseless, their crusts were perfectly golden with a arm oozy interior. I even liked the croquetas at chain restaurants in Spain, though, so maybe I’m easily impressed. 

The bomba wasn’t what I expected at all. Described as a chicken and pork meatball, I still wasn’t picturing one large ground meat orb coated in mashed potato and fried. Minus the aioli, there was something almost British about this. All it needed was a scattering of green peas. That’s a sobrassada and cheese empanada hiding in the background. I will say that the prices are fair. Empanadas, though tiny, were only $1 a pop, croquetas $2 each, same with the bomba.

The patatas bravas were done in a thick handcut potato chip style rather than in more traditional cubes. I did see huevos rotos served like this in Madrid earlier this year so it’s not a completely un-Spanish thing to do. I like tasting more of the potato’s softness, but these were still enjoyable.

Cocas are thin, cracker-like flatbrads treated like pizzas. This one was minuscule—it’s not even visible in the photo—and overwhelmed by the topping of vinegary sardines and escalivada, a.k.a. red peppers and onions grilled to sweet softness and dressed with olive oil.

There are two rice dishes: one seafood, one meat, available in two sizes. This is the smaller one, which contained rabbit and pork. The grains weren’t fully cooked, some mostly scattered on the surface were completely white and still opaque, and the meat was a little greasy yet not in a way that moistened the rice. This was the dud of the batch.

Taste is subjective, though. James ordered a Ward Eight, which I’ve never had before so it’s hard to compare. After a sip I did comment that it wasn’t very sweet, meant in a positive way. I’m not crazy about sugary beverages, alcoholic or not. The woman sitting next to us later ordered this same drink and a few minutes afterward asked the server for more simple syrup, which they brought to the table no problem. It’s never even occurred to me that you could or would doctor a cocktail. Then again, other than fries, I never salt or pepper my food at restaurants either. And I didn’t say anything about the crunchy rice.

Now that I look deeper, though, a Ward Eight doesn’t typically contain sugar, just a touch of grenadine, and Mercat Negre’s version goes primal with straight pomegranate juice. My conclusion: the cocktail isn’t meant to be particularly sweet. The customer’s always right?

While assessing our meal--James thought this was a one-shovel restaurant while I thought it was more two-shovel with kinks to work out--he commented, “I liked that tapas place by the BQE better.”

What tapas place by the BQE? Zipe Zape? That was just a few blocks from this place and it’s gone. “Do you mean Allioli?! Grandpa, you do realize how long ago that was?”

I had a vague idea just how long ago that truly was because I remembered debating whether or not I should watch the Daniel Pearl decapitation video a few days before this dinner (nay won over yay) then got squeamish about eating a baby octopus’ head at Allioli when normally I’m not troubled by such things.

And that is one beauty of blogging about food before food blogging was such a thing, I have a record of practically everywhere I’ve dined since the dawn of the millennium (as well as non-dining at Zipe Zape in its previous incarnation, Kokie’s). I can also concede that caving and buying a smartphone does have benefits, primarily being able to look up crap from the past on the spot. What was at 291 Grand Street now, anyway?

We strolled down Grand on our way to the G train, and it turns out that the space is now that Caracas Arepa Bar offshoot. Yet another indie chain.

Mercat Negre * 65 Grand St., Brooklyn, NY

Sriphraphai Long Island

Did I love it? Of course. What's not to love? And with shorter waits, parking, a bar and the ability to take credit cards, the new Sriphraphai has a few things going for it that the Woodside location doesn't.

Sripraphai is one of the few restaurants that I’ve eaten at so many times that I can detect subtle differences in dishes on each visit. I’m not that astute normally. I know some believe that the quality—and spice level—has decreased proportionately with the increasing size of room, but I don’t tend to agree. However, I did wonder how the food would translate to their random (to me, at least—maybe staff or owners live nearby? It doesn’t appear to be a Thai-heavy community either, but more Italian, middle eastern and Indian based on businesses we passed) Long Island location that had been teasing me on their homepage for what feels like a year.

So, my Halloween day plan to finally try the Red Hook Ikea that’s only 1.9 miles from my apartment was shifted at the last minute to Hicksville, just a few towns over from Williston Park, home of the brand new Sripraphai branch. Brooklyn Ikea can wait.

Yes, there was a crowd out front around 8pm, though not nearly as dense as the eaters that swarm 39th Ave. All resemblances ended there. For one, there was a parking lot adjacent to the stand alone building (we still had to street park). And more importantly, a bar with a few tall chairs on the short side near the front window that were completely open. A cocktail (ok, a Singha) while waiting for a table? How civilized. Oh, and we discovered that they also take reservations and credit cards (though the machine was broken). After only a few sips of beer a two-top became available.

The menu appears to be the same, at least the same as the relatively compact spiral bound one with small photos of nearly every single dish that was new on my last Sripraphai visit. Some of the servers were the same too. Unsurprisingly, the clientele was a little more white and suburban with way more rambunctious kids than I’m accustomed to seeing in Queens (not so, in Brooklyn). Large Chinese families were the second most represented group, which meant just about everyone was eating with chopsticks. Not a single table within eyeshot was lacking a plate of pad thai and another of fried calamari (the child-pleaser of choice, it seemed).

It wasn’t clear to me if the diners were there due to Sriphraphai’s reputation or if they just wanted to try the new Thai restaurant in their neighborhood. I would say a majority were familiar with the establishment. We got nods of approval from our server, ”very popular dish” with our orders of crispy watercress salad and chinese broccoli with crispy pork, which was unusual considering we’ve had this same waiter a million times before and he’s never acknowledged our ordering prowess.

Determined to branch out from my usual picks, I still had to glom onto a few control dishes. My initial assessment was that the crispy watercress salad was minutely different. I’m not sure if it was because I was looking for aberrations and minute tweaks would’ve slipped past me in the original location, but visually the liquid that pools at the bottom of the white plate was more orange than usual though not spicier as the color indicated. And nearly everything we ate seemed a touch saltier. The big difference was the watercress clusters. They weren’t warm, as if they’d been fried earlier, though not soggy either. If anything the batter was crunchier and more substantial. There was a lacy delicateness lacking even though the overall flavor of the salad was almost identical to the version I’ve come to love. Only a nitpicker would have a problem with any of this.

Nine times out of ten we order crispy pork with chile and basil instead of the fatty strips as a mere accent to Chinese broccoli. This is a good dish to pretend that you’re getting in some healthy greens while also getting a dose of pork skin.

I’ve never had a whole fish at Sriphraphai so this whole snapper with chile and basil was a radical departure. This is why we didn’t order our usual crispy pork; the fish became our substitute meat. You can also choose from a small or large trout. Another fried dish, obviously what I enjoy about much of this food is the contrast between crunchy and soft (the only downside being the inevitable leftovers lose any crispness). The white flesh stayed moist and the skin was wonderfully crackly and bubbled. Also, the light heat was offset by a touch of sweetness.

Though the balance was skewed with one of my favorite curries of duck, bamboo shoots and Thai eggplant. Once again, the sauce was more orange when normally this conglomerate is more swampy and served in a bowl. The flavors are usually mysterious and dark more like a deep body of water far from land, this was sunny like a tropical lagoon. I’m not saying I didn’t like this dish, but knowing the original it’s hard not to compare.

The most striking difference was the inexplicable and very fleeting likeness to the preseasoned pork tenderloins from Costco that I don’t like because they have a barely discernible pastrami flavor. This duck had a tenderloin/pastrami undercurrent that I think might be attributable to cumin. Cumin is fine when it blends into the scenery. It personally creeps me out a bit when it stands out, though. That’s just me. There is definitely a different curry paste being made (or maybe not being made in-house, which is the issue) at this location.

Thankfully, they have replicated one of my favorite aspects that you don’t always find in Thai restaurants: the refrigerated cases and metal shelves full of snacks. I also like that the desserts have glamor shots and names in the menu now, which cuts down on awkward browsing in the busiest part of the restaurant (at the original location—here, they’re off to the side). I took a plastic container of pumpkin custard squares to go and being Halloween, this parting sweet was fitting. Good as these creamy cubes are, I still felt a little deprived that I never got any fun sized candy bars on this holiday.

For being a new operation, service was efficient and good natured (though similarly harried and forgetful as the original location), and the food was still many times more enjoyable than what exists in South Brooklyn. I’m never ever in Long Island (NJ is my suburb of choice) so it’s doubtful I’ll make a comparison visit in the near future. It’s nice knowing they’re there, though.

Sriphraphai * 280 Hillside Ave., Williston Park, NY

P.F. Chang's

Did I love it? Not until I had a few drinks in me and they began playing Morrissey (godspeed).

It’s hard to judge a restaurant like P.F. Chang’s. Compared to the Americanized Chinese food found on every NYC block, it’s better on many levels. While it’s pointless pitting it against Chinese Chinese food, I’d go as far as saying it’s a suburban Shun Lee Palace. Less finesse and history, sure, but you’ll get similar garishness and fanfare at a fraction of the price.

For comparison, P.F. Chang’s has Philip’s better lemon chicken, “Lightly dusted and quick-fried chicken served with broccoli in a tart, sweet citrus sauce” for $12.95 while Shun Lee Palace has $26.95 lemon chicken “Chicken breast coated with egg batter and rolled in water chestnut flour then fried till crispy, served with shredded lemon and a velvety lemon sauce.” Ok, the latter does sound more alluring but I do wonder how different the two really are. And who eats lemon chicken, anyway?

Do not fool yourself into thinking this is Chinese food for those who can’t handle it or are unable to discern the real thing. Initially, I was surprised at the number of multi-generational Chinese families waiting for tables at P.F. Chang’s, but it’s kind of silly to think that Chinese in America would only eat at restaurants with fluorescent lighting and delivery guys on bicycles.

Normally, I’m not one for sweet cocktails but you feel obligated to order one at a fancy chain. The lucky cat martini, despite containing vanilla vodka, pineapple juice and Chambord, wasn’t that sugary. In fact, it was actually kind of bitter even though that makes no sense.

The dumpling heavy dim sum platter wasn’t anything special. They steamed, filled crescents of dough weren’t mushy but the fillings were all kind of dull and flat. Beef seemed indiscernible from pork and I prefer whole shrimp over a ground mousse. I do appreciate a crab wonton, though. The most fun was playing with the numerous sauces (there was an additional set off to the side). I’m a sucker for condiments even though the sauce they mix for you of hot mustard, soy sauce and chile paste seems kind of haphazard. What’s wrong with eating each of those on their own?

The entrees were stronger than the appetizers. Orange peel shrimp was tasty in that candied, crisp fried way that makes sesame chicken and general Tso chicken so appealing. The peel’s bitterness did help balance the sweetness.

Chengdu spiced lamb contained thick, tender hunks of something. I’m not fully convinced that this beefy tasting meat was lamb at all. Even though this dish wasn’t really like any Sichuan lamb I’ve had--it wasn’t particularly cuminy or spicy-- it was kind of good in its own way. The meat had a charred smokiness and the sauce had an unidentifiable savoriness, perhaps from a bean based chile paste.

$2 mini desserts seem to be the thing now. I also noticed them at Carrabba’s. And they do suck you in. I would’ve said no to after dinner sweets but how much harm could a small treat cause? James had the small Great Wall of Chocolate. My incongruous lemon tres leches cake was confusing at it sounded. It was more like lemon pudding layered with graham cracker crumbs and reminded me of the desserts you find in Cooking Light. I frequently use the magazine for mid-week meals but their sweets are disappointing.

I got an eyeful of the plastic display Great Wall of Chocolate cake on its round metal tray on the way out and I’m almost convinced that you could spot it from outer space (urban myth be damned) it was that large. Mini desserts were wise.

One chain hallmark is the music piped outdoors for the pleasure of patrons quoted one-hour-waits while being handed chunky plastic beepers. As I assessed this gargantuan horse statue of indeterminate dynasty, Suedehead was playing. The video with Morrissey gadding about Fairmont, Indiana, James Dean’s hometown, tracing the young actor’s steps, making a pop culture icon personal, an outsider surrounding himself in artifacts of no import. Riding a lawnmower, sitting astride an Indian bike, reading James Whitcomb Riley in a barn, passing time in a diner…um, and playing bongos in a cow field. 

Immersing myself in East Coast suburbs is a pilgrimage of my own. I can’t help it that I get swept up eating American-Chinese food in New Jersey.

Morrissey - Suedehead - Watch more Music Videos at Vodpod.

P.F. Chang’s * 3545 US Hwy. 1, Princeton, NJ

Elmer's

Did I love it? More now than ever, though I wouldn't sway from the breakfast menu.

Elmer’s is yet another Northwest chain that has jumped on the seasonal/local bandwagon. In my day they were like a regional Denny’s. Really, they still are but now tout Dungeness crab, Walla Walla onions and the like. But being for regular Joes they serve Boyd’s coffee not Stumptown.

Boyd’s is the brand of coffee they might provide in your office break room. I went to school with a Boyd’s heir, which is nothing like being a Hilton. This kid was kind of geeky and had a bowl cut well beyond the age and era where that was acceptable or in style.

I was looking forward to a big Elmer’s breakfast because I rarely have the opportunity to eat that meal properly with the whole shebang: eggs, potatoes, smoked meat, toast and maybe more. In my normal life, I just eat oatmeal or granola bars in the morning, on weekends I’m vehemently opposed to brunch and on vacation I can never get out the door before noon. I thought the beauty of Elmer’s was that breakfast was available all day, so I was saddened to be presented with a lunch menu at 12:30pm on Labor Day while en route to Mount Hood. Bah.

I consoled myself with a grilled cheese (Tillamook, of course) with bacon and tomato. Or at least tried to, but the generous mayonnaise layer got in the way of my enjoyment. Warm mayo is scary like treading water in a murky sea and being brushed against by a plesiosaurus. Horrifying…and well, more common.

A group seated next to us asked for breakfast menus. D’oh. I don’t know why I just didn’t ask.

I had better luck a few days later in Springfield when I visited another Elmer’s and got the breakfast I had been dreaming of. There’s always an internal debate over sweet or savory at places like this. Eggs usually win but they do have a tempting Dutch baby pancake.

This is Mr. Elmer’s omelet with swiss, tomatoes, mushrooms and honey ham. I’m not even sure that there is a Mr. Elmer but that’s ok. I was swayed by the hollandaise topping. Either go caloric or go home. I love that you get a biscuit instead of boring ol’ toast ,and best of all, a choice of three styles of hashbrowns: plain, with onions and peppers or interspersed with Tillamook cheddar cheese. Cheese for me.

Elmer’s * 1590 NW Burnside, Gresham, OR; 3350 Gateway, Springfield, OR (and various locations)

Taco Time

Did I love it? Yes, if only for nostalgia's sake.

It’s not as if we didn’t have Taco Bell in Gresham; I just never went. I always thought Taco Bell and Taco Time were on par with each other, not realizing the fast food joint with the green cactus sign was a rinky dink regional chain. It’s where we’d eat as kids and where we’d drive for lunch in high school.

Now, the appeal is obvious to me: fried food. They’ve diversified since the ‘80s but I’ll always associate this Eugene-originated restaurant with crisp bean burritos. A flour tortilla coated with a slurry of mashed pinto beans, wrapped into a tight cylinder and fried crisp more like a giant flauta than a burrito. Plain and simple.

The only side was Mexi-Fries, deep-fried tater tots coated with maybe a little cumin and chile powder. The thing about their frying that I remember is that it was intense, not just crisping but oil-heating until a shell formed on the tots and especially at the ends of the burrito, a treat akin to burnt ends in bbq parlance.

I had to pull over to grab a crisp bean burrito for old time’s sake when I saw a Taco Time on the side of the road in Sandy en route to Mount Hood. The beans were a little al dente, there’s nothing complex about the wrap and the salsa was kind of a mushy but that’s how it’s supposed to be.

I was snapped out of my reverie when I overheard a rugged elderly gent going table to table, “Who has the car with Texas plates?” Uh, I did, and being given a rental car with out-of-state plates was a source of embarrassment all week. I was half-scared he wanted to pick a fight with the Lone Star residents in his mountain town (it might’ve been worse if he knew we were New Yorkers). But no, in my excitement to get a burrito I had left the car’s lights on. Two rarities in my life: crisp bean burritos and driving.

Taco Time * 17475 Beers Ave., Sandy, OR

Mezcal's

Did I love it? Not immensely. Either I’ve matured or the never-special menu has slipped into sub par territory. After a few margaritas you might not care, though.

I’ve always thought of Mezcal’s as a guilty pleasure but on my last visit I just felt kind of guilty. It’s getting harder and harder to justify mediocre Ameri-Mex with Calexico and Oaxaca now also in the neighborhood.

Gooey, melted cheese on flour tortillas has its place. I’m a sucker for Tacos Nuevo Mexico’s “gringa” quesadilla. But this chorizo quesadilla was a sad specimen. The corn tortillas weren’t very pliable and the cheese didn’t even keep the sides adhered to one another, meanwhile the thing was topped with what tasted like thin Hunt’s tomato sauce, not even canned enchilada sauce, which would’ve also been kind of sad.

The mole seafood enchiladas were fine for what they were. Of course, this wasn’t a sauce painstakingly ground from 25 ingredients but this sweetish mole-lite is a bit more interesting than the taco+burrito+chimichanga combo platters that many diners favor.

I noticed that they have removed their outdoor seating (they do have a back garden, which is where everyone except us were sitting on this particular balmy evening. I prefer indoor dining, though it ended up not mattering since the front floor-to-ceiling windows were all open and I was harassed by tiny mosquitoes anyway) now that Buttermilk Channel has set up theirs on the corner. I don’t know that one has to do with the other, but I would feel less ostentatious dining in front of Mezcal’s on this still mildly ratty (by Carroll Gardens’s standards only) stretch of Court Street than eating my New American fried chicken and waffles alfresco. Frankly, my favorite thing in that immediate area is the greasy crab rangoon at Wing Hua.

Mezcal’s * 522 Court St., Brooklyn, NY