Skip to main contentClyde Common, which opened in early May, has attracted more positive buzz than just about any place in town. The bare, high-ceilinged space in the new Ace Hotel, just off West Burnside Street, is filled from happy hour to closing with an animated, stylish crowd downing creative cocktails and munchies like deep-fried, blue cheese-stuffed green olives, salty marcona almonds and addictive popcorn with Spanish paprika (all $2 at happy hour, $4 at dinner).
Much of the charm of Clyde Common—its name an homage to the down-at-the-heels Clyde Hotel that occupied the space before the Ace appeared—is its warm welcome. Most restaurants with this kind of style drip with attitude (anybody remember ripe's Gotham Bldg. Tavern?), but co-owners Nate Tilden and Matt Piacentini, who often work the door themselves, deserve credit for creating a genuinely friendly atmosphere, even for customers who have far surpassed the age of hipness. Walking in with a friend and being seated at the bar by the owner, who pulls out our chairs and tells the bartender to "take good care of these ladies," may be living a cliché, but it's one that makes this old broad feel pretty darned good.
Clyde Common has bigger aspirations than serving 1960s party snacks. Its owners call it a gastropub, Euro-speak for a bar with better food than other bars. Chef Jason Barwikowski's menu is clever and sometimes surprising, studded with who-woulda-thunk-it dishes like confit of lamb heart ($17), or a version of the Québécois comfort food poutine that adds foie gras to the standard fries, cheese curds and gravy ($10). When things are going well in the kitchen, the high hopes are justified; when the cooks are slammed, or the first-string cooks haven't clocked in yet, you may ask what people are so excited about.
Some improbable combinations really click: the wonderful platter of charred fennel sausage with squid (no euphemistic "calamari" here, modern diners can take the truth, $12); the changing "fishboard" ($14), on one night a fortuitous mélange of grilled anchovies with grana (poor man's Parmigiano-Reggiano) and a shot of ice-cold aquavit. Another surf-and-turf combo, beef tongue with seared scallop, beets and tomato jam ($11), has quickly become a signature, the deeply savory, tender tongue contrasting with the firm, fresh shellfish. And "chicken-fried chicken livers" ($10) is a far bigger inspiration than just the pun—the crisp crunch of the batter sets off the creamy livers so perfectly I wondered why nobody had thought of this before.
More good stuff: a perfect bowl of chitarra pasta (square-sided spaghetti) showered Roman-style with pecorino cheese and black pepper ($12), a better rendition of this dish than we found in Rome last year; judiciously charred hanger steak with a jolt of the North African red-pepper relish harissa ($20); white-fleshed whole fish—could be dorade , could be branzino (about $20, price varies)—with Mediterranean-inflected sides like preserved lemons, great fun for any diner who isn't scared off by a few bones, fins and eyes. And the beer and wine selection is smart, original and food-friendly, though you'll get more for your money by skipping the inflated "table wines" and choosing a glass or bottle from the main list.
Not-so-good stuff: an over-brined yet undercooked roast chicken ($19); a watery lunch frittata of bay shrimp, avocado and tomato ($8); a dull rabbit loin with peaches that arrived a half-hour after the rest of the entrees ($18). The server delivered the rabbit with news that he was taking it off the bill. In general, the well-informed servers noticed if we were just picking at a dish, and were quick to remove an underwhelming platter from the tab.
During one lunch, we enjoyed a classic Portland scene as a farmer double-parked her van at the front door and carted in flats of gorgeous produce, including bunches of the prettiest little carrots ever. The kitchen often does that farmer justice, as in a side dish of rich roasted cauliflower ($4) and a lunchtime plate of delectable fresh corn and bay shrimp fritters ($8). But a grilled corn salad with red pepper, lime, chili and bitter greens ($8) tasted like nothing but vinegary onions on our first try; a week or so later, the vinegar was dialed down, but nothing else was dialed up. The creamy dressing on various green bean salads ($8) was too mild-mannered, and fries ($4) were as likely to come over-browned as not.
As for desserts (all $6), a very bittersweet chocolate pot de crème was silky perfection a couple of times—especially when it came with a tiny scoop of raspberry-rose sorbet—then too gummy once. An olive oil and lemon cake with blueberries was painfully dry. The housemade ice creams are terrific—toasted almond ice cream was heavenly with a grilled ripe peach—but why toss berries into a chocolate sundae? The platter of perfect fresh berries with a dish of crème fraîche was simplicity itself, and a far better option.
Clyde Common's most annoying chic conceit is communal tables, an unfortunate trend that's taking off with viral velocity. "I want to choose who I eat with," growled one friend, and I can't argue, especially when the routine is done as clumsily as it's done here. Two tables for eight are cunningly designed with clunky legs and support beams in all the knee-banging wrong places, and the larger table in the front window is so wide that parties of two must sit awkwardly side-by-side. When the host installs a large group, they shriek across the vast expanse, multiplying the room's already exhausting decibel level. Ask to sit at the ordinary two- and four-tops in the mezzanine, for comfort (if not quiet) and the bird's-eye view. If your timing's right, you'll catch a glimpse of one of Portland's most engaging new restaurants in action.
WWeek 2015