Woo Hoo! Soapbox time!

Industrial beef = cheap beef. Hey, economically, things are tough all over. Cheap beef looks really appealing when you're trying to lower food costs. I feel ya. But Freddy's beef is more expensive than you might think.

Let's talk about that cost. After reading Michael Pollan's book, one of his arguments really resonated with me. When you take everything into consideration, a pound of grass raised beef, produced on a small family farm, is actually more cost effective than that from an industrial factory farm. For one thing, it doesn't require the gallons of petroleum normally used to grow corn based feed. At the same time, you alleviate the environmental cost associated with cleaning up shit lagoons and groundwater contamination. Also, a local producer burns less fossil fuels bringing product to market. In factory farming, these are all costs that eventually reach the consumer in other ways. Our government pays for cheap factory beef through subsidies and will eventually need to spend money to clean up the mess they make. That money needs to come from somewhere... Oh look, it's the taxpayer's pocket!

Besides, that cheap beef doesn't look so cheap when you add the cost of a hospital bill—on the off chance that you're infected by e-coli. If you're poor or unhealthy in the first place, the damage from tainted food can be simply disastrous. Because I don't have health insurance, if I were to get an e-coli infection, I'd be fucked.

Despite the less-than-impressive results, I'm not ashamed to say that over the past six or seven weekends, I've made a pretty goddamn valiant effort to make a sort of bagel sandwich for breakfast--one with like a fried egg, and melted cheese, and, if I'm feeling particularly ambitious, some avocado slices. I've failed fantastically pretty much every time. I almost set off my apartment's fire alarm on Saturday morning. It occurs to me that I should probably note that I'm really good at making exactly four types of food.

1) Macaroni and cheese
2) Cold cereal
3) Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
4) Apples

You don't see stupid bagel/egg sandwiches up there because out of the past six or seven weekends, I've managed to not fuck up frying an egg exactly once, and I think that was just a fluke, as I have no idea how I managed to pull it off. In other words: I don't know what I'm doing, and I kind of need some help here, and I'd appreciate it if someone who, unlike me, has even the most basic culinary competence can give me a little bit of advice on the matter. Not so much because I actually want to eat one of these fabled, possibly imaginary homemade bagel/egg sandwiches at this point--no, now I pretty much fucking hate the things, just on principle and out of spite--but because I'm sick of my apartment reeking like burned eggs.

Did you know that people from South Carolina put a mustard sauce on their BBQ? All together now—Ewwwwwwwww... yum.

Kitty will be happy to know that our lunch troubles are over thanks to Soupcycle. Soupcycle is a spankin' new delivery service that will bring handcrafted soup to your home or office on a weekly basis "similar to a CSA or an organic food box." All you have to do is set up a soupscription (Ha! Get it... like subscription... but with soup...). The soup will be peddled to your door. Three different soups will be featured each week in three different categories: vegan, vegetarian or meat.

The soups sound kinda fun. For instance, there's a soup called My Babushka Can beat Up Your Babushka, your basic borschty, beety, cabbagy concoction- Lithuanian style.

There's also a soup called Jam Chowder: a creamy clam chowder described, in an e-mail forwarded to me, as "So tasty it's like Burning Man in your mouth." Yikes. Might want to work on that description. Still, the soup picture on their website, soupcycle.com, looks very good. I'll reserve any more comment until I get some of that soup in my belly.

This is worth keeping an eye on if you live or work in the delivery area known to Soupcycle as Souplandistan. On the map sent to me, it seems to be demarcated by pool of split pea.

I'll keep you updated as Soupcycle gets rolling.

Yesterday, I got real lucky. Since Patrick, our beloved food editor, was double booked, I had the fortune of attending a media dinner at chef Micah Camden's newest restaurant, DOC [Camden is the brains behind the venture, Greg Perrault will be in the kitchen - PAC]. DOC stands for Denominazione di Origine Controllata, a food quality assurance label in Italy. I was treated to a free seven course meal in the company of smart, friendly foodies—one of whom looked exactly like Tina Fey. They told me all about the legs of wine and all the fancy places in town that unfortunately, I won't be able to afford for another ten years. They even had a brief discussion on molecular gastronomy, which I was sort of familiar with due to an unhealthy obsession with Marcel from Top Chef.

Anyway, D.O.C. is worth peeking into, if only to see unique way they set up the restaurant. The space they're working with is very small (it can only seat about 22 to 24 patrons at a time) and may have been a vegan shoe store or something in the past. They made the most of the space, setting up the kitchen at the entrance, so diners have to walk through the tiny kitchen/dishwashing area to enter the dining area. It worried me a little bit though. I can totally see some drunk person tripping and falling on the stove, or a disgruntled busboy spraying someone with scalding hot water. The dining space itself is homey yet elegant (think Northwest sleek, not Danish sleek) with its black chandeliers and gingham curtains.

The food was tiny, pretty, and cerebral. I'm sure the wine pairings were smart (since everyone at the table told me so. I only drink it at Passover Seder and I'm not even Jewish). Patrick will have more intelligent things to say about the place when he reviews it in a month or two. All I have to say is that I hope he gets overbooked again soon, so I can score some more free meals.

Yes. Never underestimate the power of a free meal on an unpaid intern. Powerful stuff. At any rate, I do look forward to checking the place out. Look for it in Last Supper.

I don't eat enough salad. That's a damn fact. It's not that I'm not trying. It's just that my diet as a food editor often leads me away from leafy greens. According to a recent story from Reuters, maybe that's not such a bad thing:

Celebrity chef Antony Worrall Thompson has apologized after accidentally recommending a potentially deadly plant in organic salads.

The chef and TV presenter said in a magazine article that the weed henbane, also known as stinking nightshade, made an excellent addition to summertime meals.

But here's the thing—henbane is not only deadly, it can cause hallucinations, convulsions and vomiting. This from Herbs2000.com:

All parts of the plant are poisonous, and if eaten, even small amounts cause anything from dizziness to delirium. Too much brings slow and painful death.

It seems that during an interview with Healthy and Organic Living magazine, Mr. Worrall had confused the plant with another, non-lethal, herb known as fat hen. The magazines fact checkers failed to catch the mistake, causing the editors to run a frantic warning for its readers not to cultivate and eat henbane.

Just goes to show that even celebrity chefs could kill you. I could see Gordon Ramsey (language NSF) poisoning a salad in a fit of psychotic rage, or maybe if Bobby Flay got too competitive on Throwdown...

As you can probably imagine from the following entry in the "What Would You Do for a Klondike Bar Commercial Contest," the creators of this ad were disqualified.

From the BVT:

Art Tinajero, vice president for marketing for franchise company HootWinc LLC in Oceanside, Calif., said the decision to close the restaurant was made "over time and analysis of the market we serve."

I'm curious about that market. The only Hooters I've eaten in was in Boise, Idaho, where I suffered acute cognitive dissonance while watching entire families, with young children, dine in the presence of buxom, lap-sitting waitresses and cat-calling men. Apparently the family/creepy guy market just couldn't support more than one Hooters in the region.

I do feel for the 40+ employees who worked at the Beaverton location. Imagine having to drive from Beaverton to Jantzen Beach in order to keep your paycheck and benefits. Does that even make sense with gas prices the way they are?

What about the Beaverton Hooters servers who decide the commute isn't worth it? On one hand you're no longer required to feign interest in your customers or don that deplorable short-short/pantyhose/scrunchy sock/tennis shoe combo. On the other hand, not having work in this economy is disasterous.

In terms of the employees, here's hoping the commute is as painless as possible, or that the unemployment is brief. But as far as Hooters is concerned: Good riddance.

Her husband cleverly renamed it Cheesus and her daughter decided that it looks more like a horse's head. This is what a local theologian, David Bennett had to say about the whole thing, "If people can find Jesus, somehow, in each of us like she's found n this object, that would be a wonderful thing."

In other dumb food news, some idiot bought a boring looking chicken for over four grand.

I love me some cake, but I love the monstrosities at Cake Wrecks more than I could possibly express. They are ugly, offensive and just plain wrong. The best thing about Cake Wrecks (aside from the amazing commentary) is that the cakes were created by "professionals." Not only have these creations gone screwy on the production side, much of the hilarity comes from the requests people made for their cakes.

Really, what was the impetus behind this cake:

This is my new favorite food blog... hands down. I laughed until my sides hurt. Enjoy!

Big Ups to ex-intern Erin LaCour for the tip

About a year ago, I jumped into the offal fray by ordering my first tongue taco. I wasn't really sure what the hell to expect from the experience. So I closed my eyes, opened my mouth, and took a bite. What I tasted ignited a love affair and a mad search for the perfect taco de lengua.

A good taco de lengua is a thing of savory beauty that is lost on many Americans who seem to have a dislike for any meat that originates above an animal's neck. Well prepared beef tongue has a consistency and flavor of roast beef. It should be lean and tender, simply shredded in a corn tortilla and minimally garnished.

Last night my search brought me to Torres de Morelos, a taco truck that hulks in a small patch of blacktop at 33rd and Powell, between a motel and an auto care center. I've passed the place hundreds of times since moving to the neighborhood, but I'd never had the wherewithal to stop. Things came to a head last night as I sat on my porch, wondering what the hell I was going to put into my belly for dinner. The fridge was bare, I didn't want to cook and I've recently sworn off fast food for like, the thousandth time. Then, I remembered the cart, just blocks away. I figured it didn't really count as fast food and I imagined they might just have a nice tongue taco.They did, indeed.

The taco de lengua at Torres de Morelos was absolutely lovely. It was supremely tender, well seasoned and just a tad smoky from the grill. They dressed the taco with grilled onions and fresh cilantro. Also accompanying the taco was a lime half and some deliciously subtle hot sauces. Two of these beauties ran me three dollars. So freaking inexpensive! I was easily satisfied, considering the generous portions of meat.

Torres de Morelos has a selection of other offal tacos including tripe (both bovine and swine) and cheeks. I'm sure as I continue to patronize this taco truck, I'll try these more heroic offerings. I'll let you know how it goes. Not sure when they are open, but it seems to be every day until after dark. I'll ask next time I stop by and update the post.

In the meantime, if you're digging taco truck action yourself, let me know about your favorites in the comments section. Also check out the Portland Food Cart blog to track down that perfect taco with your name on it.

I only used a small portion of the interview in the Mercury piece, so I'm posting the entire transcript for your perusal. It's a fascinating read.

Feel free to post your recollections of Portland food in the comments section.

Me: Tell me about '88. Were you at the Heathman at that time?

Greg Higgins: Yeah. I had designed and opened B. Moloch, The Heathman in bakery and pub form. So I was running both those projects and opened that because here's the difference between then and today: I couldn't even find a lot of bread when I first opened the Heathman. I was baking all the Heathman's bread as well as doing everything else. So I opened that thing so we'd have a facility where we would do our smoking, curing, baking, as well as being a brew pub. We contracted out the brewing to Widmer. That was, I think, pretty cutting edge at that time, the idea of having high end food in a brew pub. Also, of course, supplying those raw ingredients, semi-finished ingredients, you could tell we did all the bread, all the smoked meats and sausages. Smoked seafood, stuff like that.

What's happened to the Gardenburger supply? You ask, I investigate. It's clear that there has been shortage of Gardenburgers (as well as their meatless patty cousins) across the United States, but there isn't an Amber Alert system for missing grocery items, which means I had to call on the shadowy figures of media relations. Dun dun Duuuuuun.

Here's what I found out:

In November of last year, Kellogg's bought Gardenburger Inc. and subsequently began work to improve the only Gardenburger plant in the U.S., located in Clearview, Utah. Sometime in May of this year, grocers and vedors, like Burgerville, began noticing abnormalities in texture and shape in the Gardenburgers they were recieving. This prompted Kellogg's to issue a voluntary recall of Gardenburger product. According to reports, construction at the Utah plant may have affected the quality of the patties, but there were no apparent safety concerns from consuming the irregular product. After the recall, the plant was taken off-line to improve product quality.

This "quality" issue and voluntary recall spooked some grocers. Fred Meyer was one of a few grocery stores to actually pull Gardenburger stock from the shelves, just in case. The lack of Gardenburgers meant that a meatless patty void needed to be filled and folks like Kraft Foods that produce Boca Burgers just have not been able to keep up with demand.

Exacerbating the whole thing, there is speculation that Gardenburger Inc. may have slowed Gardenburger production due to the impending sale to Kellogg's.

Currently, Kellogg's has the Utah plant up and running, fresh Gardenburgers should be rolling off the line as we speak. There is no telling when the Gardenburger supply will be stabilized.

First, the tomato was the suspect. There was something about the way she glimmered there in the light of the grocery store like a back-alley whore house light bulb. And then there were the questions about her provenance. Not to mention, all the people who came into contact with her came down sick. Some poor bastards even died. It seemed she left a trail of bodies in her wake. She was the lady in red, a fruity Typhoid Mary, and she had to be stopped.

But then again, maybe the tomato was a red herring (?). Maybe she was too obvious. Maybe she'd been covering for her old salsa partner, Senor Jalapeno, the entire time. Or maybe, they were in it together.

My suspicions were confirmed when I opened the L.A. Times and read this:

The same salmonella strain once thought to have originated in raw tomatoes was found in a Mexican-grown jalapeno in a Texas distributing plant, the Food and Drug Administration said Monday, prompting a nationwide warning for consumers to avoid fresh jalapenos and food products made with fresh jalapeno peppers.

So, that was it then, the tomato was in cahoots with her foreign pal. This changed everything. What could they possibly want, what could they be getting out of this reign of terror...

Then I remembered, I had eaten a taco just last night! I'd been so caught up in the case that I didn't even think about what I was doing. They'd both infiltrated my dinner! Damn! I decided I'd better call Doc—and fast.

Strange. No bloody mary this weekend. I would have thought shopping under the influence of Long Island iced teas or roasting chicken to Tom Waits and rye whiskey might have done the trick. At least the giddy trip down Powell (walking, natch) to watch the talented aerial entertainers at the Lucky Devil Lounge and an after-hours session in an undisclosed location might have prompted some serious head clutching. Kinda. But not enough to drive me into the summer sun for my cure.

It seems pulled pork sandwiches, collard greens, and sweet tea are a fine substitute for a bloody mary. Good to know.

So, I ask you, dear Blogtownies: On this Bloody Monday, what is your hangover cure and where do you go to get it? Help out a few fellow drunkards and post your answers below.

Also, last Friday in my Summer Boozy Goodness post, I gave readers a challenge to come up with a cocktail recipe that would combine the booze from at least three of Portland's micro distilleries. The round of drinks I offered to buy is still up for grabs. Just send me an e-mail!

Here's to your week: may it be as painless as possible.

"To buy something at Nordstrom Rack is very hard because we have to find something that is really expensive among thousands of products. It is like looking for a treasure ship in the deep blue sea."

"Last sunday, I, SunHye, Noel, Noel's friend Jennifer and my host mother went to Saturday Market. Although it was too hot, many people came to the Market. I had never seen the homeless. However, I could see homeless in the market. It was somewhat novel to me. I think America would be very very developing country. Also, I could see various races who sold their things in particular Tibet, Japanese, Chinese, Mexicans, extra. In particualar, I felt somewhat intimacy with Asian. So, I bought a necklace, a character of chinese indicating "good luck", from a Japanese. I also bought bracelet from African American for Korean friends."

And then there's this website, which the Gastronaut rather hilariously found via a Portland police officer's Twitter. Click on it. Do it.

Big ups to Fark.com for the video.

Driving home from the Pearl District, after a media preview for 50 Plates, I felt a little bit like Julia Roberts in Pretty Woman. Here I am, a low class (yet intelligent) food writer who is picked up by a gorgeous new restaurant that treats me like a king for an evening in hopes that I'll write something particularly nice. I know, that's only tangentially like the plot of Pretty Woman, but I know how I feel, dammit!

I'm telling you now, it's hard to resist gushing about the place (and thus, feeling like a whore). Not because the free valet service treated my beat up Mercedes as if it were a brand new SLR McLaren Roadster. And not because the evening's menu included Kobe beef and lobster. It also has nothing to do with the oysters and cocktails and the fact that when the valet returned my car there were two boxes of fudge in the passenger seat. No. It does have to do with the fact that the kitchen staff obviously knows what the hell to do with American food. However, I will save my final judgment for a more appropriate time and refrain from making any (more) grand statement about the dinner last night.

The idea for 50 Plates is actually pretty fun: The menu is designed to represent a panoply of regional cuisines from the U.S. that will change regularly. 50 Plates, 50 states in the union... Get it? The danger with this concept, however, is that it there is the distinct possibility of a menu that feels scattered and incoherent.

The dining room is minimal, modern and has a very low flash factor—that is, if you discount the huge, colorful cakes in a display case opposite the front entrance. The petit fours included a little "dirty rice" beignet, castroville artichoke rolls with a substantial chunky artichoke presence (imagine an artichoke dip filled spring roll), and fried green tomato toasts.

In terms of dinner, by the time it was over, I felt as is I had eaten about a quarter of the 50 Plates. In fact, I believe that is actually the case. Here I will note the "clam bake," the pan roasted sablefish on a clam chowder mash, a molasses BBQ shortrib that's been slow cooked for 10 hours, and a brown sugar ice cream. I'll say those three words again: brown sugar ice cream.

The bar is solid with the estimable Lance Mayhew showcasing his skills. Among the cocktails on Mayhew's menu is a mint julep that's crystalline cold with caramel tones, which he sends into the world with a little slap on it's minty behind.

You'll definitely be hearing about this place, if not eating there. I don't think the PR people left anyone out of the loop on this dinner and just about every media mover in town was in attendance. Expect a full review of 50 Plates in about a month or so. Just enough time for them to get in the groove and for me to realize that they don't really want to marry me, they just want me to give them good head... I mean, press. I kid, I kid. I know this whole thing is a thinly veiled seduction and I appreciate it. Still, like Julia Roberts, I want the fairy tale!


50 Plates opens on July 24th
333 SW 13th

Although the deadline to enter your pierrefic recipe is already past, there is still opportunity to show up at the Eastbank Portland Farmer's Market on Thursday, August 21st and go pie eating crazy.

But I know not everyone is as fortunate (or talented, or handsome) as I am. So, I understand how difficult it must be for "regular folk" to not only get free food, but get paid for eating it. Outside of working for a snarky, local, alternative infotainment weekly, you've got to get pretty crafty to pull off a paid-free-meal.

There are lots of ways to do this. You can pull the old fake vomit/lawsuit trick, or the old finger in the chili/lawsuit trick, or the old rat in the lunch/lawsuit trick. But if you opt for the rat in lunch, may I suggest you do your research. Here's an example of what not to do from Appleton, Wisconsin:

Miller wanted the restaurant to pay her $500,000 or she would alert the media that she found a rat in her lunch April 17, according to the criminal complaint.

The owners of the restaurant kept the rat and turned it over to their insurance company. Insurance investigators sent it for testing and determined that not only was it a white rat, the domestic variety, but that it had been cooked in a microwave.

The restaurant does not use microwaves.

Well, there you go. Unless you want to be prosecuted for extortion be sure to know your local feral rat varieties. Also, be sure to kill and prepare your rat in a manner consistent with the restaurant that you are dining in. I imagine that the placement of the rat would also be crucial, you don't want to eat so much that it looks like you ignored the rat for most of meal. On the other hand you want to eat enough to be satisfied.

Here's wishing you good luck in all your free-paid-meal adventures! And, as an added bonus the best dead animal lunch to ever be featured in a film with Bette Davis and Joan Crawford.