GENTLE READERS,
It's true. There's a secret world out there that's like
a big party and you don't know about it. In fact, it is
a big party and guess what? You're not invited. Miss Dish,
however, wearing her special BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE disguise (ah,
the hours of major reconstructive surgery using an assortment
of hoses both large and small) and implementing her Matahari
skills and blackmailing techniques, secured entrance at
the PLACE TO BE SEEN this year in Portland and reports back
to you, her comrades, in the hopes of dispersing this information
to THE PEOPLE. The event in question? The practice dinner
for the new HOT restaurant, Bluehour.
Ah, Bluehour. As gentle readers may recall, Miss Dish first
reported back in June that Bruce Carey was planning
to close his influential restaurant Zefiro and start
a new venture. After months of food-scene anticipation (for
restaurant geeks, this was the equivalent of that long wait
you followers of silly George Lucas had to endure),
WW let the cat out of the bag that Carey was leaning
toward calling the place Bluehour, that period of twilight
when the sky is powered by transition. Just when the hype
was fully ripe, the time had come to unveil Carey's masterpiece.
And so, the secret world of the "practice dinner." Imagine
going to a restaurant where the owner graciously picks up
the tab for the whole place all night long. Visualize a
room full of people who all are players in the pea-sized
world of Portland media, people who are now overstuffed,
overdrunk and just made a left turn at messy. Yes, there
was that architecture writer turned restaurant reviewer
from the O (well, you could say risotto
is something you design and build), and the sweetly scruffy
former WW intern turned editorial assistant
at the Mercury living large, and the former
fashion 'zine writer/publisher turned jewelry designer making
overtures to the respectable professor/restaurant reviewer
from this newspaper, all topped with a certain gay columnist
quizzing the cute boy waiters about their modeling histories.
The only thing missing was a late entrance by the flamboyant
ghost of James Beard. Whew. Miss Dish would not allow
these distractions to interfere with her ability to report
the news in a responsible manner. Of course, an uncorrupted
reviewer from this news sheet will set upon the place with
critical eye for some unsponsored meals and report back
soon.
Here, then, are Miss Dish's notes, wonderfully restored
after a disastrous rumba with a martini made with black
plum liqueur:
White leather chairs (dangerous?!). White walls. White
coasters. No blue anywhere. Black drapes (taffeta?). High
ceiling. Private but open. Bruce seems nervous. Best gnocci
ever (will chef Kenny showoff Italian?). The bread is back.
Lobster. Caviar? Beets! Smokers porch a party. Waitstaff
relaxed, fun. Where is Thomas Lauderdale? I can't hear people
sitting right next to us--because we're so loud? Fake breasts.
Chocolate pudding. Lights go off when twilight hits: sky
is bright blue. If I were rich I'd eat here a lot. Good
place to get drinks with other nominally salaried friends.
Bring parents. Huge silverware.
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