Notes from the road and from the table — what was worth the trip, what was worth the plate, and what wasn't.
👁 — visits to this page
A French bakery on Mill Plain with a line out the door, a mezzanine, and a bottle of house sauce said to hold twenty-four ingredients. I ordered the salmon Benedict, which was very good, and spent the rest of the meal quietly wishing I had ordered the ham one.
A national chain in an East Vancouver strip is precisely what a travel notebook is supposed to skip. Except this one started at a corner in Seattle, there is a photograph of that corner hanging in the lobby, and the MadLove is one of the best burgers I have eaten anywhere.
The morning after a padlocked gate on SE Woodstock, driving back down the same street to collect my car, I looked up and found a church that had been named for the occasion.
The kitchen here is doing something genuinely uncommon — 100% grass-fed and finished beef, a menu built to be taken apart and rebuilt. Then some time after nine they padlocked the back gate with my car still behind it, and that is why this entry has one star instead of four.
A New York Steamer ordered "fully involved," a hot sauce bar named after the founders' own father, and the case for why a sandwich chain's branding can be this good and its app can still be this bad.
A tray, a bowl of hot water underneath to keep it warm, and a whipped egg-yolk foam dusted with cocoa — Vietnam's answer to tiramisu in a cup, plus a whole rotating board of specialty drinks worth its own second visit.
A grilled panini of prosciutto and brie on the boulangerie's own baguette, eaten at a sidewalk table in downtown Lake Oswego — worth traveling across the city for, and I did.
Third stop of the day, twenty minutes after lunch — and a case for why "adventurous" isn't automatically the same thing as "better," at least where ice cream is concerned.
A steak yaya roll and a fried fish taco to close out a Sunday food crawl at a Vancouver institution I've been driving twenty-five minutes to for years — and a case for why the happy hour burger, with a little-known sauce most people never ask about, might be the better order.
A hand-sized dome of almond cake and mirror glaze, a few doors down from lunch — the kind of pastry that looks too good to cut into and tastes better than it looks.
Three slices of pork in a Hokkaido miso broth, in a strip-mall shop behind a Japanese grocery in Beaverton — and the best bowl of ramen I have eaten on this coast.
A first entry, and a plain statement of what this notebook is for — roads, tables, and the honest verdict on both.
A brand-new location on SE 3rd Way, a Double-Double taken apart and rebuilt with pickle brine and pepper juice, and an argument for why nothing else in fast food beats In-N-Out on the ratio that actually matters.
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