I can’t help but stare. Naomi Pomeroy is deftly balancing
braised pork cheeks atop spinach-stuffed chickpea crêpes. I’m not
being rude just because I’m anxious to eat (though the smooth, earthy
mushroom soup we’d had earlier—er, the “wild mushroom
velouté”—did bode extremely well for what was to come in
the six-course prix fixe meal). I’m staring because this is the woman
who had a very public downfall when she and her then-husband’s
restaurant empire, ripe (which included the original incarnations of
clarklewis and the Gotham Building Tavern) crumbled two years ago. And
here she is, pouring little ladlefuls of pork demi-glace on each plate,
wiping up the errant drip with a towel, as if this is where she was
meant to be all along. Damn, what a comeback. I’m in awe—of her
skills in the kitchen, and her bravery for opening a new venture in
Northeast Portland.
I gawked at our charcuterie plate, too, the second round of the
evening (if you don’t count the bonus gruyere-laced gougères
that appeared soon after we’d ordered wine). House-pickled vegetables
competed for attention with things like a bacon-wrapped pork
pâté, a foie gras bonbon bejeweled with apple gelee, and a
ribbon of duck prosciutto topped with a sliver of kumquat. Though some
of the offerings were more adventurous than I’m used to—like a
tiny rectangle of toast cradling a quail egg and steak
tartare—each bite was a testament to Pomeroy’s talent and
attention to detail. (Pomeroy changes the broader menu weekly, and
makes minor tweaks each day.)
The pork cheeks are next. Roasted baby artichokes and a salsa of
green olives, peppadew peppers, anchovies, and capers finish what I’d
watched Pomeroy start. The meat is impossibly tender. The rich sauce
plays up the nutty crêpe. Once my plate is empty, I consider
whether anyone at the communal table will notice if I run my fingers
around the plate and lick them clean. I envy the couple sitting next to
us as their plates of pork arrive.
The salad course is a bit of a letdown after that pork high. Endive
and Miner’s lettuce dressed with a Meyer lemon cream are flecked with
orange roe and bits of smoked trout. It’s a good salad, but it’s not
the star of the evening. Across the street, framed in the only lit
window of a second-floor apartment, a woman showers in silhouette. Our
server tells us there are usually two people behind the steamed-up
window. Somehow, the peek into the neighboring apartment enhances the
intimacy of Beast’s candlelit dining room, and plays off the irreverent
quotes scrawled on the back wall in chalk.
Dessert arrives. I try to savor my itsy rhubarb tarte Tatin,
drizzled in a balsamic caramel sauce, but the perfect scoop of
buttermilk ice cream alongside threatens to melt if I dawdle. I oblige,
after sneaking a taste of the poached apricot (in champagne and brown
sugar, no less) on my partner’s cheese plate.
At $45 for five courses, or $52 if you dare to put back the cheese
plate and dessert, Beast isn’t cheap. But in Pomeroy’s skilled
hands, and considering the quality of ingredients and breadth of what’s
placed in front of you—not to mention the show that the staff and
neighbors put on—it’s a steal.