Chains of Love

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

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

Burgerville

Did I love it? Absolutely. I only regret having time for just one visit.

I can’t pinpoint when Burgerville went from being a regular, albeit regional—they’re based in Vancouver, Washington—burger chain to the revered sustainable/local/seasonal darling it is today. For many, like that bike-riding drive-thru woman who recently caused a flap, it’s the only fast food they’ll deign to eat.

I primarily remember it being where my dad and his fellow classic car enthusiasts would meet up and show off their tricked out autos in the parking lot. I guess because Burgerville has adopted a vague ‘50s décor and uses a jukebox on their sign?

But the food is really good and who can argue with using what’s fresh and when it’s gone it’s gone? I’m just bummed that we missed the Walla Walla onion rings by a few weeks. On my visit they were promoting poblano peppers, sweet potatoes and blackberries, as well as advertising upcoming apples and cranberries.

It was also worth noting that you can substitute a side salad for fries and bottled water is a combo option in addition to fountain beverages. As a soda-loather, this is appreciated. I’ve always been bothered by water costing more than soft drinks. I’ll take the fries, though.

I accidentally ordered a wimpy cheeseburger instead of one of the beefier varieties so I had to strain to try and detect all of those grass-fed, antibiotic-and-hormone-free nuances shining through. Frankly, what made this burger so awesome was the combination of melted Tillamook cheddar and that sauce that I’d totally forgotten about. Plain mayonnaise scares the crap out of me but incorporated into condiments, the eggy richness transcends the fluffy white emulsion. They sell the spread in jars at the counter so I know I’m not alone in my love.

I prefer caramelly, chocolate, nutty flavors of ice cream over fruity varieties. I guess I’m just not crazy about fruit, though I do like berries, cherries and tropical stuff. The Northwest is teeming with berries like huckleberry, marionberry, boysenberry, olalaberry, not just regular black and rasp. This lavender shake ruled; sweet without straying into sickly territory.

After eating, we ordered two pepper bacon cheeseburgers for the road. I think the counter kid thought we were crazy.

The bread is from Franz, who I happen to have a personal beef with for a very legitimate reason. Not too long before I moved to NYC, one of their delivery trucks crashed into my parked car and totaled it during an early a.m. rainstorm. (In a weird way, it kept me from going to court. Days before this incident I had been pulled over by cops and cited for driving without insurance. I was scheduled to go to court to prove I had gotten it but no more car solved that problem nicely.)

These Franz trucks haunted my entire week in Oregon. There was a Franz bakery outlet just a block from the Burgerville in Albany where we stopped on our way to Eugene. We ended up spending over $10 on non-Franz junk like pepperoni sticks, mini pecan pies and Annabelle candy bars, Abba Zabba and Big Hunk, both non-existent on the East Coast (what, no Idaho Spud?) so we were entitled to two items from the sale rack. No one needs loaves of white bread on vacation but I grabbed a pack of hamburger buns just to be safe.

Burgerville * 2310 Santiam Hwy SE, Albany, OR

Carl's Jr.

Did I love it? In theory. The experience was more exciting than the food.

Eating at Carl’s Jr. on a Portland vacation doesn’t make much sense but I like trying West Coast chains that are absent in NYC. Don’t worry, I also ate at Burgerville, the acceptably seasonal and local Northwest fast food chain, too. If I had more time I would’ve also popped into Jack in the Box and the strange new-to-me sit down restaurant, Claim Jumper.

The first thing I was reminded of while walking along the bus mall from our hotel to Carl’s Jr. a few blocks up the street was that Oregon may as well lose its Beaver State nickname and borrow from Oklahoma. I don’t know that there’s a more panhandley state in the nation. Oregonians who haven’t been to NYC don’t seem to realize that here it’s not normal to see someone sleeping on porches, in every doorway and to be asked for change every few feet. Last year I noticed a man asking for change on William St. near my office. He’s been there ever since and the only reason I notice him is because he’s the only pandhandler I’ve encountered in the Financial District. Ok, there’s also that tranny who begs at the Carroll St. F in the evenings but that works out to like one panhandler per neighborhood.

I was reading blog reviews about Clyde Common (which I just wrote about) and was struck by this comment, which you would never see on an NYC website:

"I will indeed try to visit. Unfortunately my last effort left me confronted with about 30 street people lying or sitting on the sidewalk around the entrance at noon. Not wanting to go through the beggars brigade with associated insults if I did not drop money, I left for more options in less confrontational climes."

Nice. But even more striking was that the entire Carl’s Jr. and neighboring streets had been taken over by cosplay kids. Apparently, an anime convention for youngsters (I saw maybe two chubby guys over 30 and there were a few over-21s because I heard an exchange, “I’m not drinking any $5 beers.” “No, this place isn’t expensive.” If I had any doubt I was back in Portland where a $5 beer might be considered luxurious) was in town and everyone had on their best rainbow tights, hooded cloaks, cat ears, turquoise wigs, plastic swords in tow. The thing is, no one appeared to be dressed as a particular character. I withhold judgment since I was once a bored, white, middle class, geeky teen living in the suburbs of this very second (third?) tier city. There are worse outlets for too much free time.

Most jarring of all (after noticing that the staff was entirely white, super polite, some middle aged, and that they bring the food to your table--I suppose that in minority-less cities, someone must staff service industry jobs) was that the eatery had completely run out of ketchup. What kind of fast food joint runs out of ketchup?! We were offered bbq sauce instead.

Knowing I would be eating a proper meal in a few hours, I shied away from the Six Dollar Burgers and chose the basic Famous Star with cheese. It was fine, nothing more. You can order your meals small, medium or large, meaning the size of your fries and drink. My respectable skin-on fries and Minute Maid lemonade were mediums.

Concentrating on the burger proved difficult because we had walked into the middle of what felt like a high school drama club field trip with a dash of non-dining tweekers going from table to table saying who knows what because I wouldn’t make eye contact since I know better than to engage spazzy strangers. As we were getting ready to leave, a young-ish tattooed bike messenger-y kid came over and asked if he could have the rest of our fries, the six or so stragglers that were covered with a used napkin. Uh, I guess.

On one hand, I hate waste, maybe it’s because I’m an Oregonian, I never throw out substantial food and always take home leftovers. Why shouldn’t someone eat remaining supersized portions getting tossed out? On the other hand, have some dignity, man. James enjoyed the novelty and went and found this guy and his comrades hanging out down the street and gave him the last quarter cup of his Coke Zero. “Thanks!” was the genuine reply.

I’m still torn on this practice because in Portland so many are destitute by choice. In fact, there’s an entire culture of scrounging at the Reed College cafeteria, a university that costs $39,440 per year.

Carl’s Jr. * 508 SW Taylor St., Portland, OR