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Castagna
1752 SE Hawthorne Blvd., 231-7373
6-10 pm Tuesdays-Thursdays, 6-10:30 pm Fridays, 5:30-10:30
pm Saturdays.
Expensive.
Best bets: Soup
made with artichoke and prosciutto; carpaccio of thinly
sliced Copper River salmon drizzled with olive oil; vitello
tonnato; cherry-and-chocolate semi-freddo.
Nice touch: Refreshingly
comfortable, fabulous service.
Maybe my expectations were too high. Before Castagna opened,
food and gossip columnists whetted Portland appetites with
the news that veterans of two of the city's best kitchens
were breaking away to open a new restaurant. Monique Siu,
original partner in the groundbreaking Zefiro, and husband
Kevin Gibson, a chef at longtime favorite Genoa, were putting
the finishing touches on their culinary partnership, a refuge
from the tyranny of trends that would serve simple food
inspired by Italian and Continental cuisine.
The implied promise was that Castagna would be greater
than the sum of its parts. It's been open almost four months,
and though the restaurant is refreshingly comfortable and
the service beyond reproach, in the calculus of taste Castagna
too often comes up short. Not by much, as some offerings
evoke the transcendent sense of complete satisfaction that
comes when you eat something nearly perfect. But that only
deepens the disappointment when a dish fails to deliver.
The first thing I tasted, soup made with artichoke and
prosciutto, was heavenly. The pale green puree hinted of
fresh mint, but there was no single dominant flavor. The
ingredients blended harmoniously, and each spoonful elicited
a quiet murmur of pleasure. A wonderful carpaccio of thinly
sliced Copper River salmon drizzled with olive oil took
a different route but got me to the same spot. It was clearly
all about salmon, and there may be no better representative
of the species than the rich, firm Chinook from the famed
Alaskan river. The fruity green oil provided a complementary
flavor that enhanced the fish.
A plate of deep-fried morels signaled trouble. These wild
mushrooms are a rare treat, available fresh only for a few
short weeks in the late spring. Their subtle, woodsy flavor
comes out best with simple preparation, like a quick sauté
in butter, maybe with a little wine. At Castagna, they were
breaded and fried beyond recognition. Any mushroom flavor
had been left behind in the cooking oil; the dark, crunchy
lumps could've been anything. The oyster mushrooms were
treated better. Sautéed with pancetta, the unsmoked
Italian bacon, then combined with scallops that had been
seared to a light golden color without being overcooked,
they provided an earthy counterpoint to the sweet shellfish.
But a plate of agnolotti in a simple cream sauce was a little
too subtle. The veal-stuffed fresh pasta, similar to tortellini,
needed an accompaniment with a more assertive flavor. I
finished that first meal with a plate of Gorgonzola, filberts
and apple slices, and those last few bites mirrored the
highs and lows of my previous experiences. The cheese and
nuts were just right: full of flavor--one soft, creamy,
and sharp, the other mostly crunchy with a hint of earthy
sweetness. They needed a crisp, juicy apple but got instead
slices that were mealy and dry. Didn't anyone in the kitchen
taste that apple before it went on the plate?
I went back on a warm summer evening. The lingering sunlight
streamed unobstructed through the front windows, and the
mostly white interior of Castagna was intensely bright.
Razor-sharp lines dividing light and shadow transected the
dining room, already crisply geometric. The high-contrast
chiaroscuro extended to the diners. The ones facing westward,
luminous and completely revealed, squinted at the half-hidden
backlit faces of their companions. It was easier to look
at the food, a welcome bit of color in soft relief-- especially
if it was vitello tonnato, thin slices of rare veal served
cold and topped with a dollop of pale yellow mayonnaise
flavored with tuna and a sprinkle of capers. The mayonnaise
brought some necessary richness and flavor to the lean,
mild veal, and the capers added a briny flavor note. Salad
was simple: crisp butter lettuce flecked with chives and
fresh tarragon and lightly dressed with vinaigrette. Despite
the heat, I was drawn to the grilled New York steak, and
when the server delivered one to the next table with a mound
of shoestring potatoes so big it required its own plate,
I was convinced. The potatoes were fabulous. Hot, crispy,
salty and nearly greaseless, they stole the show from the
steak. The beef tried hard, and it had help from a scoop
of black olive butter, a sort of extra-rich tapenade that
melted over the hot meat, but it was held back by an unattractively
thick rind of fat along the outer edge, something that should
have been trimmed off.
And so it went with each meal. I was by turns blown away
by absolutely perfect fried zucchini, crispy little strips
with a melting interior, and unimpressed by tough, leathery
rounds of cucumber in crème fraîche. A beet
salad was tasty enough but too skimpy for the price. Briefly
sautéed cherry tomatoes lent just enough sweetness
to a wonderfully moist halibut filet topped with a browned
mantle of basil mayonnaise. Fettucine with squash blossoms
and mascarpone could only be described as bland. Sorbet
made from sweet blood orange and drizzled with sparkling
wine danced in my mouth, but the apricot version left an
unpleasant coating on my tongue. An amazing cherry-and-chocolate
semi-freddo was intensely rich without being overwhelming.
The food is prepared according the most basic tenet of
Italian cooking: Use the best ingredients available, and
let them speak for themselves as much as possible. If there's
a single fault with the cooking here, it's that some dishes
may need a little help finding their voice. Underseasoning
to the point of austerity made me reach for the salt more
than once.
Castagna opened with a bang. But after a few weeks, the
restaurant stopped serving lunch, an indication that Siu
and Gibson might have been overly optimistic about the drawing
power of the Zefiro-Genoa connection and the demand for
high-end lunch in what is basically a working-class neighborhood.
It was busy every night that I was there, the customers
a mix of walk-ins from adjacent Ladd's Addition, visitors
from across the river and a family or two celebrating special
occasions.
At this point Castagna is a mixed bag. Some of the food
is very, very good, and some is just OK. All of it is expensive,
with prices that can easily push dinner for two into three
figures. There's nothing wrong with that. Quality costs
money, and the success of other equally expensive restaurants
proves that even notoriously thrifty Portland diners are
willing to spend a little more for a truly memorable meal.
Castagna needs to be more consistent if it wants to provide
those memories.
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Willamette Week | originally
published August 25,
1999
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