Winterborne,
3520 NE 42nd Ave.,
249-8486
5:30-9:30 pm Wednesdays-Saturdays. Expensive.
Best bets: Sautéed oysters, warm fish terrine,
Bouillabaisse Royale, chocolate mousse.
Nice touch: Charming, turn-of-the-(last)-century feel
Winterborne is a cool oasis in the desert of contemporary
restaurant hype, a throwback to an earlier world of tranquility
and tradition. It is, of course, an old Portland fixture,
where dependable, though hardly innovative, fish and seafood
dishes have satisfied customers for years. One does not hear
much about Winterborne, however; it's as if the restaurant
were satisfied to be on the margins, like--to change metaphors--a
shy, unaffected wallflower.
Winterborne now has a decided French accent, first evident
in the single small room, which a few years ago was completely
and handsomely redone. That accent is reiterated in the
tones of the sole waiter, who is emphatically Gallic and
tends to play that role a bit too strenuously. But he is
as gracious as the setting, and from the initial "Bonjour,
Messieurs Dames" to his obvious pleasure if you order
a French-press coffee after--not with--your dessert ("I
congratulate you--very French indeed"), all is of a piece.
The menu is even simpler than the ambience. Four appetizers,
five or six entrees, three or four desserts. Changes do
appear seasonally, but certain dishes are standards by now,
and a return visit even months later will seem like a familiar
experience. Two starters are among the fixtures, and both
are wonderful. Fish terrine, surprisingly warm, consists
of a mixture of halibut and scallops, ground and pressed
into a spreadable slab, accompanying a sliced baguette.
The texture is delicate, and the flavors are quite true.
I kept wondering how it would be when served cold, but the
weather had just turned and the terrine was comforting in
this style. The oysters are famous here: Out of the shell,
they are plumply sautéed to a crispness that protects
the creamy interior; they could certainly stand on their
own, though they come with a delicious, creamy dipping sauce
of homemade mayonnaise, chutney, horseradish and garlic.
I tried half the oysters one way, half the other, and could
not decide which I preferred, for each was wonderful in
its fashion.
By far the best entree is the bouillabaisse. The broth
is heady, and while the serving is hardly gargantuan (in
France, you get the pot itself for continued ladling), the
supply of prawns, mussels, clams and white fish keeps you
quite busy. In addition, boiled potatoes enhance the bowl.
Aside from the desire to have the craggy-looking Mediterranean
rockfish rascasse (the absence of which, diehards insist,
renders the dish trivial) flown in fresh from Marseilles,
my only complaint is that I'd like a heaping dollop of rouille--the
thick cayenne-and-garlic sauce--slathered on the croutons.
But that's a minor matter, and the bouillabaisse is otherwise
excellent.
A fillet of sturgeon is also worth having. The waiter described
it as breaded, but that's not true, and I was put off until
I discerned that he was really describing a Dijon crust,
not a dense coating of bread crumbs. The thick, juicy fish
is quickly sautéed, not deep-fried. Like several
of the fish plates, this one comes with a medley of vegetables
sautéed in a browned butter for a smoky taste and
a deep mahogany appearance. Another traditional and satisfying
offering is the seafood puff pastry. I admit to having had
visions of a boring vol-au-vent, the pastry shell that looks
like a lidded pot and is classically filled with fish or
chicken in a cream sauce. Though the name means "flying
in the wind," vol-au-vent, often too leaden to be airborne,
recalls a Campbell's Cream of Chicken Soup sauce throwback
to 1950s Casa de la Maison Gourmet House bar mitzvah receptions.
But happily Winterborne's version takes off briskly, for
the pastry is exceedingly light and flaky, and the seafood
filling is delectable and full of ocean flavors.
My only disappointment in several visits came with the
basil Thai prawns. Before Thai food became as common as
cheeseburgers, this dish might have seemed exotic, but it's
really quite bland and uninteresting, and it may be better
found at nearly any Thai establishment in town. In a restaurant
with a small menu and that angles itself toward France,
this dish seems unnecessary.
Desserts return to the culinary patrimony: a light but
richly flavored chocolate mousse, with a glistening film
of cream across the top, calculated to renew one's faith
in this classic; and a perfectly executed apple tart with
a terrific crust.
The wine list is extremely small but decently chosen, the
prices generous to a fault. It would be nice if the restaurant
sought out more surprises and more interesting bottles,
especially of whites. Nevertheless, there are several decent
pinots gris, and an Alsatian tokay (not the sweet variety)
is authentically served in small, delicate, Alsatian glasses
especially designed for this wine. But balanced against
such thoughtfulness, the restaurant does not have any mineral
water to offer. A few simple additions would make a difference.
Roger Porter is taking a six-month leave from Willamette
Week to live in Paris and to teach American literature
at the University of Versailles. He will return to the paper
in July after having cooked and eaten far too well in France.
- - - - - - - - - - - -
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Willamette Week | originally
published February 2,
2000
|
