When The Chef Is Trying To Kill You
July 10th, 2009 by Scott
I recently took a long vacation with my family to Portland, Oregon, foremost to celebrate my brother’s college graduation, but perhaps more importantly — we being a family of New Orleanians — to do as much Pacific Northwest eating as we could manage. And I have to say, the food scene in PDX is inspiring. Plenty of high-quality, local organic product, talented cooks gunning for culinary innovation and fun, and, best of all, a low cost of operation that makes it easy for an up-and-coming chef to take a few chances on a new restaurant. If the proof of this experiment’s success isn’t in the pudding, per se, it was definitely in the outstanding ono ceviche we enjoyed at Andina, the grass-fed and finished strip steak at Urban Farmer, and of course the spiced boar collar and fish sauce fried chicken wings at Pok Pok. As I said: Outstanding. But it was on my last night of the trip, mere hours away from boarding a red-eye flight back to New York, that I confronted one of the most outrageously ballsy menu items I’d ever seen in my life. At the diminutive, elegant Le Pigeon, listed nonchalantly among the other appetizers, was this:
Foie gras jelly donut, $16
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