Year Of The Artisan

[October 18th, 2006] New restaurants—some terrific, some promising, some intriguing but misbegotten—seem to be opening every week, running the gamut from glorified takeout stands to multimillion-dollar "concepts." Authentic, inexpensive cooking from around the world is increasingly likely to appear on a corner near you, while the $200 dinner for two is no longer a rarity in once-frugal PDX. And, in a coup for a city our size, both Higgins and Paley's Place turned up on Gourmet magazine's national Top 50 in September.

But restaurants alone do not a food-lover's paradise create. What makes eating in a place like Italy, France or India such a stimulating experience is the depth of the food culture—the quality of raw materials; the profound exploration over generations of everything a place has to offer, on land, in water, in caves, in the forest; and the finely honed skills of artisans who turn those products into beautiful foods.

Compared with the Old World, we're playing catch-up here in Oregon, but we're doing it fast and with fervor. Yes, James Beard wrote odes to Dungeness crab; indeed, our winemakers figured it out 30-plus years ago; but the more recent velocity may have started with the founding of Portland Farmers Market in 1992. However you reckon this awakening began, though, the critical mass of farmers, fishers, ranchers and foragers who exploit our terroir in all the best ways has arrived.

And now the next wave is rolling in: food artisans whose passion is transforming the bounty of the Pacific Northwest—and the world—into miraculous things to eat. As we planned this annual section, what we heard around the city was enthusiasm about people with clever hands, long apprenticeships and boundless passion who are using traditional and innovative techniques to make frankly amazing food. Their skills add yet another layer of good taste—and good tastes—to living in Portland. This restaurant guide honors chefs, as always, but this year we also want to honor our emerging food artisans and their contributions to the deliciousness of life. (HY)

^The Chocolatier

I have to tell you about something great: It's chocolate. But it's greater than you think; it can be as moving as a brilliant idea, hard work, true love. One piece can be transcendent. And I've found the person who can get you there. Her name is Elizabeth Montes, and she owns Sahagún Chocolate Shop. With glass cases holding the chocolates Montes makes, by hand, in the small cool neat kitchen, the shop is no bigger than a couch; the door constantly bumps people in the butt. But no one minds; they line up all day, because what Montes is doing, is extraordinary.

Oh, she doesn't present it this way. She's darling, with bobbed black hair and eyes as wide as a child of 7's. This whole business, she wouldn't have even done it had not her husband—Rodney Muirhead, he co-founded LOW BBQ—said, "Let's go look at spaces." She'll tell you she'd be happy to just sell her chocolates at the Portland Farmers Market, which she did for several years, "because it was super pleasant." And she laughs again. But she did open a shop, in 2005, named for a Spanish missionary and archaeologist who wrote about the Aztec civilization's relationship with chocolate, its value in ritual, food and currency.

I think of Montes, too, as an explorer. She is here, standing in front of you, frothing melted Venezuelan chocolate and milk to what may be the world's most exquisite hot chocolate. But part of her is not here; part of her is off dreaming of chocolate. She told me, "All I want to do is continually try to figure out how to make better chocolates—great chocolates—and just keep on having something dreamy to do in my life."

This is what you have to do, to be part of the dream: go to the shop. Become mesmerized by what's in the case, bars of dark chocolate in wrappers as exotic and promising as passport stamps. Consider a truffle pop (Lolly Choc), a palet dusted with iridescence; the palomitapapa, a bark Montes makes from dark chocolate, "exploded" corn and jalapeños her papa grows in the Mojave Desert.

And then ask for a salted caramel; it's the little cylinder with the hazelnut on top. Do not expect Montes to ooh and aah as you bring it to your lips; she wants the experience to be yours. Pop the whole thing in your mouth and bite. There. Do you feel the narcotic effect as the liquid caramel seeps into your system? The chocolate takes us out of this world, yes, but it's Montes who gathered the stars. (NR)

Sahagún, 10 NW 16th Ave., 274-7065. 10 amÐ6 pm Wednesday-Saturday.

^The Bakers

Two decades ago when we thought about bread, soft, spongy loaves in plastic bags inevitably came to mind. It was simply a pale vehicle for peanut butter and jelly or tuna salad.

That sort of anemic bread is part of our past now; Portland boasts at least half a dozen artisan-style bakeries that turn out seriously crusty loaves to an appreciative bread-loving public. Since 1997, Pearl Bakery has been part of the revolution, leading the charge towards great crusty loaves and Old World pastries.

It's plain when you tear into the crisp crust of Pearl's naturally leavened pain au levain with its airy cell structure and subtle, natural yeast flavor: This is the work of some serious perfectionists. So, are those behind the greatness of Pearl Bakery control freaks?

"We prefer to call ourselves detail-orientated," laughs head bread man Tim Healea. "We're working with four ingredients—flour, water, yeast and salt. For it to be an artisan product, there has to be thorough knowledge of the subtleties of fermentation, and the ingredients have to be very carefully selected." Healea painstakingly sources his flour from sustainable farms, occasionally visiting the farmers and fields in Eastern Washington and Idaho where the wheat they use is grown.

Pearl Bakery doesn't garner a fierce following based on bread alone. Pastry chef Lee Posey's Euro-style pastries have a near cult status with sweets aficionados. There are no flashy frostings, just deceptively simple treats like her pastry-cream-filled Basque tart, pear gingerbread and raspberry brownies (that are so good, Martha Stewart deemed them worthy of her magazine of all things perfect). "The driving force behind my baking has been to do everything by hand, from scratch," the pixie-like baker says. "There's a joy to starting with a pile of stuff, ending up with a beautiful pastry and knowing that you made every part of it."

It's all in a day's work, says Healea, kicking back in the bakery's tiny office at 10 am after what has already been a long day. "After 10-plus years, we do the same thing every day, and it's something we are still really passionate about." (IM)

Pearl Bakery, 102 NW 9th Ave., 827-0910. Pearl breads are also sold at Portland Farmers' Market, Pastaworks, and Whole Foods Market, and served at Justa Pasta, Eleni's Philoxenia and Lauro Kitchen, among others.

^The Butcher

Described by The New York Times as "scruffily handsome young men who sell their own charcuterie, caul fat and confits," the Viande/Simpatica cabal is becoming legendary in the annals of Portland food and drink. From humble meat counter origins to private-list dinners to sumptuous catering, the forces behind the Viande Meats and Sausage butcher block—Ben Dyer, John Gorham, Jason Owens—are hands down the kings and caretakers of artisan charcuterie in Portland.

Like many, I found my first experience with them a bit unnerving. I'd never seen people grin so fervently as they discussed sausage-making, the thrill of creating pâtés (from a variety of duck, veal and venison), or what part of the pig guanciale comes from (the jowl, BTW). What I mistook for a maniacal if-it-sits-still-long-enough-to-stick-a-fork-in-it fascination was a passionate, poetic understanding of Wendell Berry's "thought of the good pasture and of the calf contentedly grazing flavors the steak...mean[ing] you eat with understanding and with gratitude."

Their vivid selection of natural, hormone-free, free-range meats is awe-inspiring. Whether your desires veer toward handcrafted sausages (N'awlins-esque Boudin blanc and Andouille), the highly in-demand pastrami and prosciutto (who knew it took so long to make?!), a salty bresaola, marbly rich salamis, roasts, rabbit, lamb racks or a simple yet superb applewood-smoked bacon, Viande's epic poetic ode to animal protein is as lipsmacking as it is lyrical.

The trajectory began when Hawaiian-born Benjamin Dyer bought Viande Meats and Sausage in 2003 with John Gorham. And transpiring circumstances continued to build momentum when a year later they joined forces with Jason Owens to start the Axis Supper Club, and later Simpatica Dining Hall and an extensive private catering business. With business booming (their cured meats and sausages are sold at a bevy of fine local restaurants) and the boys just back from shooting a TV show called Endless Feast, they're at the top of the locally produced, seasonal fresh heap, occupying a three-tiered Olympic victory stand—with nary a contender in sight. (TD)

Viande Meats and Sausage (inside City Market), 735 NW 21st Ave., 221-3007. 11 am-6 pm Monday-Sunday. Viande's products are also sold at the Portland Farmers' Market and Market of Choice, and served at Simpatica Dining Hall.

^The Cheesemakers

"We didn't look for the cheese," says David Gremmels, co-owner of Rogue Creamery. "The cheese found us."

It was May 2002, and Gremmels and his partner Cary Bryant had never made cheese in their lives. In the midst of renovating a wine bar they planned to open in Ashland, they drove out to Rogue Creamery in the nearby village of Central Point. They liked the cheese they tasted, and told cheesemaker Ig Vella they wanted to place an order.

"Well, fellas, if you want my cheese, goddammit, you'll have to make it yourself," said Vella, whose father had bought Rogue in 1935. "I'm closing this place down July 1."

Four years later, Gremmels and Bryant have revived a piece of Oregon's agricultural history, producing blue cheeses that are winning international awards and enthusiastic fans. The creamery's Rogue River Blue, wrapped in grape leaves and aged up to one year, was named the World's Best Blue in 2003 at the World Cheese Awards in London.

It hasn't been easy: The partners' serendipitous discovery required a crash course in cheesemaking, heroic marketing efforts and a financial commitment that grew to 10 times their initial investment. Though Rogue had a long history, its reputation for constistency was spotty.

Gremmels and Bryant turned the creamery around with an obsessive focus on quality. The cheeses begin with milk from Rogue View Dairy in Grants Pass, where Brown Swiss and Holstein cows graze. "[We do] everything by hand, every step of the way," says Gremmels. "Not just in the vat, but every aspect—aging, even cutting and wrapping."

Rogue's six distinct blue cheeses (about 300,000 pounds a year) are now made with raw milk and aged at least 120 days, a process which favors fully developed flavor and texture over mundane concerns like cash flow. Every week the partners and staff taste every lot of cheese, to determine which wheels are ready to release and which need more time.

"Another aspect of artisan production is passing along the traditional craft of cheesemaking," says Gremmels. Rogue has developed a three-year apprenticeship program. "Our best cheesemakers are people who came to us out of their passion for cheese, no matter what their background—we've got people who were chefs, construction workers, in the military. By training them, we're investing in the future." (HY)

Get Rogue's cheeses at the Portland Farmers Market and New Seasons.

^The Distiller

Twenty-one years ago, Stephen McCarthy started a revolution. At 40, having already practiced law, run TriMet and sold the hunting and shooting accessories business his father started for "a bucket of cash," the ambitious liquor aficionado turned his attention to the family orchards in Parkdale, Ore.

"We grew Bartletts, which had been the pear for fruit cocktails, but at some point people stopped eating them. But then I learned that Williams pears, which are used to make pear brandy, are actually Bartletts."

Inspired, McCarthy convinced Jörg Rupf, the proprietor of St. George Spirits in Alameda, Calif., to teach him distilling. "He didn't want me to pay him," McCarthy says, "but I told him I felt I had to since I would be going into competition with him and would most likely do a better job."

In 1985 McCarthy opened Clear Creek Distillery on the corner of Northwest 23rd Avenue and Quimby Street and began distilling his eau de vie de poire. Soon he added apple brandy, then muscat grappa and kirschwasser (cherry brandy), and the business kept right on growing.

McCarthy's process is the essence of simplicity: Raw fruit is mashed, inoculated with yeast, fermented and distilled, with no colors or flavors added at any point. "The less you do, the better everything is," McCarthy says. "We don't make the brandy—yeast makes alcohol and the laws of physics separate it out."

Today, Clear Creek's line of 21 liquors includes grappas, eaux-de-vie of mirabelle and Douglas fir, whiskey, brandy and a new selection of sweet liqueurs for drinkers who find brandy too rough. In June the company relocated to a much larger space at 2389 NW Wilson St., allowing McCarthy to double his production.

But the path to success hasn't been easy. "For the last 21 years I've not made much money," McCarthy says. "We're in a loss position overall, but that's changing."

Looking toward the future, McCarthy predicts the proliferation of small local distilleries will continue. "The distilling industry is ripe for what happened to beer makers 25 years ago. And these little guys are, if they package it right, going to make billions." (BW)

2389 NW Wilson St., 248-0490. Clear Creek products are sold at the distillery and most Portland liquor stores, and served at Higgins, Wildwood and Paley's Place.