 photo by FRANK DIMARCO |
BY ROGER J. PORTER |
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Le Bouchon 517 NW 14th Ave., 248-2193 Open 11:30 am-2:30 pm Tuesday-Friday, 5:30-10:30 pm Tuesday-Saturday. Credit cards accepted. Children welcome but unusual. Moderate. Picks: escargots, moules marinières, pâté, sweetbreads, magret de canard, veal kidneys, crème caramel Nice touch: The completely French feel of the place, from owners to staff to authenticity of preparations. Portland has a number of casual restaurants that serve ethnic cuisine in delectably simple ways: the Italian Assaggio and Caffe Mingo, the Greek tavernas Alexis and Berbati, the Spanish tapas bar Tapeo. But until now, there has been no neighborhood bistro that would make the nostalgic Francophile feel thoroughly and happily at home. On the margins of the Pearl District, Le Bouchon (The Cork) has filled that absence so nicely that one night my dinner partner, who had just returned from a year in Paris, spontaneously called for more bread midway through the meal--in French. He did so neither to show off nor to ingratiate himself with the waitress, but because, suddenly feeling he was back in France, he simply could not help himself. Le Bouchon reminds me of hundreds of similar places in Paris, and also of the Bistros de la Gare, those little family-run restaurants by the railroad station of every French town where you can find dependably good, simple home cooking. You sense it from start to finish here: the friendly greeting, the buzz and hum of the talk, the French staff and owners, the typical cuisine de grandmère or cuisine bourgeoise replete with classic bistro dishes. One of the owners, also a hostess and as professional a waitress as you'll find in this town, sets the tone. From Lyon, the bistro capital of France, she sings her words in that lilting French way. She'll discuss a dish if you desire but compliments you by assuming you know everything about it anyway. With a few choice posters, lots of blond wood and a pleasant bar near the entrance, Le Bouchon is a cozy and charming place. You won't find dishes of high art here; neither innovation nor elegance marks the cuisine. But if you want reliable cooking that will revive memories of what attracted you to things Gallic in the first place, this might become one of your favorite hangouts. The menu consists of a dozen starters and the same number of entrees, almost all traditional fare. I'd recommend first of all the snails served out of the shell. They bubble away in sizzling butter with garlic and a hint of Roquefort for a nutty, even slightly tart and pungent taste. The liver pâté is moistened with port for an unctuous texture (not that crumbly dry style, which I have never liked); cornichons properly accompany the good-sized slab. The baguette is tasty, and though it lacks the crackly crust some prefer, it's fine for sopping up the rich wine and herb-infused broth thrown off by a generous mound of plump and succulent mussels marinières. Another tasty appetizer consists of rock shrimp curled up in a strong sauce laden with white wine and garlic. The outstanding main dish is a special chalked on the blackboard in the middle of the restaurant, but as it has been on the board for all three of my visits, it's a virtual regular: sweetbreads. Perfectly tender and extremely delicate, they are braised and bathed in a sauce lightly touched with cream, tomato and shallots. It's not easy to find this dish (the thymus gland of a calf) locally, so it's a special treat. For those devotees of innards, veal kidneys make frequent appearances on the specials list. Bubbling in a deep mahogany sauce of red wine and shallots, they have a marvelously crunchy texture; inevitably you experience a slight uric taste on the first bite, but then the richness of the sauce takes over, and it's Leopold Bloomish heaven. Another common, though uncommonly good, bistro dish is the magret de canard--rare moulard duck breast--sauced with cream, brandy and pepper. It may be a surprise to learn that until some 30 years ago hardly anyone prepared duck in any other way than roasting it whole in its own fat. When André Daguin, a great chef from the southwest of France (duck, goose and foie gras country) began to treat duck breast much like a steak, grilling it quickly over coals or broiling it to retain its pink color and subtle flavor, and then slicing it on the diagonal, the technique caught on and has become the favorite choice of duck fanciers. Le Bouchon's treatment of the duck is nicely done, as is its preparation of the roast pork, which is also moist and tender. The ribeye steak is prepared in the French way--a bit thin for American tastes, though the flavor itself isn't. A small complaint: there's a tendency here to oversauce some items, and the steak, because it isn't thick enough to carry a lot of sauce, seems a bit overwhelmed, even masked. But in compensation, the potatoes accompanying the meat dishes (either gratin dauphinois or mashed with garlic) are extremely tasty and, in the case of the mashed, beautifully smooth. The French have always had a way with these favorites. Desserts are few but typical: a luscious crème caramel; a chocolate mousse whose innate richness is enhanced by a topping of what appeared to be either butter cream or whipped cream taken to the next level of density; and a tarte tatin that is tasty but could be a bit crisper in the crust and juicier. Since almost everything about Le Bouchon seems sweetly authentic, it would be nice to have a cheese selection; maybe that will come. I look forward to new (i.e., old) items showing up as the weather turns cooler: a cassoulet, perhaps, or boeuf bourguignon, rabbit in mustard sauce, coq au vin... I don't want to be greedy or dictatorial. I'm charmed by this unassuming place, but since I'd give anything to create clones of old Parisian haunts, I want Le Bouchon somehow to equal two or three of them at once. While the cooking here doesn't equal that of the Heathman, either for splendor or finesse, for an everyday good time and a touch of the real thing, Le Bouchon will more than do. It's a corker.
originally published September 30, 1998
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