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March 22, 2010 02:01 PM

It’s about time Rhys Ifans — probably still best known as Hugh Grant’s peculiar roommate in Notting Hill — got himself a big, juicy whopper of a leading role. Unfortunately, this isn’t it. Mr. Nice, based on the true story of Welsh drug dealer and jack of many trades Howard Marks, starts out relatively strong, even carrying the absurdity of Ifans playing a high schooler. An ordinary kid who’s ecstatic to get into Oxford, Howard quickly discovers drugs (the film lights up with color as he takes his first toke) and, over the decades, becomes — somewhat accidentally — a wealthy drug runner with ties to both MI-6 and the IRA.

The latter is represented by David Thewlis, wild-haired and crazy-eyed as Jim McCann, who helps Marks get drugs into the U.K. after driving them in from continental Europe gets too dangerous. In L.A., Marks works with a bewigged, twitchy Crispin Glover; elsewhere, he deals with the manically unstable McCann; occasionally, as the years pass, he even spends some time with his wife, Judy (Chloe Sevigny), and children. Marks gets busted, gets out of trouble, lives a comfortable life and finds it boring, and eventually finds himself in even deeper shit than ever.

Part of the problem with Mr. Nice — which takes its name from one of Marks' many pseudonyms — is that the endless sequences of Marks and company moving, packing, hiding or hiding drugs lead to a muddled, disconnected narrative that lacks emotional impact. There’s a more streamlined story in there somewhere, but writer-director-cinematographer-editor Bernard Rose (Immortal Beloved) hasn’t quite found it.

(Keep reading...)

Rose drops in period details and does a clever thing or two with stock footage, but the referential cinematography and clever production design can only take the film so far. The film’s final sequences, button-pushing though they occasionally are, are among its most effective: Marks in jail is not a pretty sight, and Rose’s somewhat worshipful view of him as a clever bastard doing his best to get around needless drug laws shifts just enough to turn Marks into a more interesting and sympathetic character. While the film’s repetitive storyline muffles Ifans’ usual charisma, Sevigny, her British accent slipping, does what she can with a woefully underwritten character. Judy appears over a board game, invitingly explains the rules of Go to Howard and quickly replaces his previous love interest. Once the relationship is established, she’s shuttled off to the sidelines, where her role is to be pregnant and disapproving for most of the rest of the film.

Mr. Nice opens with Marks speaking to a crowded theater; when it closes with a similar scene, it’s almost a surprise to be back in that space. The framing device — a reminder that Marks is a real person, still out there, still writing and telling his story — wedges more distance between the film and the audience. Our stand-ins, the crowd on the screen, rise up and applaud when Marks finishes his tale. We’re clearly meant to be inspired to follow suit, but the flat, jumbled Mr. Nice elicits no such response.
Mr. Nice does not yet have a release date.

March 22, 2010 10:41 AM

Portland's Animal Farm played an afternoon show — one of several performances they had over the week — at the Texas Rockfest, a free event set up in a parking lot just off the main drag. It was a well run —  two stages meant there was very little downtime between bands — if slightly odd space, home also to a handful of seemingly miscellaneous booths (one of which boasted a giant banner reading I [HEART] VAGINA).

One in the afternoon can be a rough time to go on under any circumstances, but perhaps even more so here, where shows run until 2 am and then start back up again with day parties (often with free beer) at 11 am. But despite a lackluster audience, Animal Farm put on a determined and energetic show. I've got a lot of respect for performers who play to a small crowd with the same level of commitment you'd expect them to bring to a larger, fuller venue, and these guys — with their smart beats, clever wordplay and abundance of enthusiasm — definitely pulled that off.

(Note: I'm labeling the unofficial, non-booked-by-SXSW day shows SXSW just like the official evening shows; they may not be part of the festival, but to the music fan in Austin for the weekend, it's pretty much all just part of the South By experience.)

March 22, 2010 03:55 PM

PhotobucketJaguar Love at the Ghost Room, 3/18

The first day of SXSW's music track was also St. Patrick's Day. Whether this made a difference in anything but the amount of green seen on Sixth Street, the festival's main drag, I'm not quite sure; the street overflows with drunken revelers every night of SXSW. Before long, however, the main topic of discussion was a bit more somber: By that night, the news was out that Big Star's Alex Chilton had passed away. The Big Star show scheduled for Saturday night would go on as a tribute and memorial. But there were plenty of other things to do before then.

Miles Kurosky @ Red Eyed Fly [unofficial day show] If the name Miles Kurosky means nothing to you, I’m sorry. I’m sorry because that means you missed out on the bittersweetly joyous jangle of Beulah, the late-‘90s/early-‘00s band for which Kurosky was the singer. Despite it being the middle of the afternoon and there being more people onstage than seemed comfortable, a slightly nervous-looking Kurosky made new fans and charmed the old with a mix of songs from his new solo record — and a few much-missed Beulah favorites. I’ve never been more happy to see a trumpet player as when Kurosky, muttering something about how they had a trumpet player, they might as well use him, broke into “Emma Blowgun’s Last Stand.”

Goodness knows, it’s been a wonderful run...

I’ve not had a chance to listen to the new record but what I heard in Austin was just what I wanted to hear: Kurosky’s perfectly ordinary voice still blends with bright guitars and, yes, trumpets — among other things — as timelessly as it ever has. This guy makes songs that could fit on a mix-tape from any era in my life. There’s a magic that happens when the usual rock lineup transforms through superb songwriting into something so expansive. Go back and listen to When Your Heartstrings Break. You won’t be disappointed.

(Keep reading: Frightened Rabbit, Anya Marina, Jaguar Love and more...)

Frightened Rabbit @ Day Stage Café I can’t imagine that a lunch gig inside the convention center — where people are chowing on inedible Pizza Hut personal pizzas, searching for outlets and pawing through their enormous yet handy tote bags of promotional whatnot — is high on the list of any band’s dream places to play, but the truth is, the funky convention center venue had some of the best sound I heard all week. Scotland’s Frightened Rabbit started too soon — singer Scott Hutchison warbled, “Someone should have told us...” when it turned out they were supposed to wait for a radio DJ to introduce them, thus giving context to the live broadcast — but it didn’t seem to trip them up. The too-short set included at least some of the hits from their still-smallish catalog of soaring, heartbroken, inexplicably endearing indie rock, including the cheerfully sad-sack “Swim Until You Can’t See Land,” the only song from the new The Winter of Mixed Drinks I actually know. (This is a minor tragedy.) The band has sprung a new member since they last played in this neck of the woods: Hutchison told Scottish music blog The Pop Cop that new guy Gordon Skene plays “a bit of everything.” His additional harmonies (look, I grew up on the Posies; I’m a sucker for a sweet harmony) made the FRabbits live experience just that much more likely to induce warm fuzzies.

Anya Marina @ Max’s Wine Dive [unofficial day show] I’m not ashamed to say I went to see Anya Marina for the simple reason that I really, really like her song on the New Moon soundtrack. I was less enthralled by the beginning of her brief set at Max’s Wine Dive, where, as I said on Twitter, my first impression was that she was like Joey Lauren Adams — the squeaky voice! the apple cheeks! — doing Metric karaoke on downers. But “Satellite Heart,” spare and pensive, was a delicate showcase for that odd voice, fragile and creaky at once, and didn’t need to be interrupted by the iPod. Later in the week, I watched Marina play a song or two with her band. The fuller sound helped, but still the rest of the songs just didn’t feel as complete, as ready to leap into the ears of listeners and take on lives of their own, as “Heart.” But she did do a sweet T.I. cover.

Danny Malone @ Live Create Lounge Malone recently played a show at Sam Bond’s to an utterly disinterested, loudly talking crowd. He was late, he was frustrated, he seemed about to crack — and then he left the stage to cut a rug in the open bit of floor and opted to perform his final song on the table of the loudest talkers, who, unsurprisingly, finally stopped talking. I get not being into a show, but I don’t get talking at full volume during a solo set. In Austin, Malone was better received — it’d be a hometown crowd were it anything but SXSW, where the few locals I met were apt to swear they don’t get near Sixth Street during the festival — as he yelped through a ferocious track I’d not heard before. I didn’t want to leave, but a Portland-shot movie was calling.

Bad Veins @ Red 7 Good venue, good (not too packed) crowd, better-than-good band. Bad Veins consists of two dudes and a reel-to-reel, and if you think that’s not much different than two dudes and an iPod, you’re sadly mistaken. The duo sounds kind of like the Killers if the Killers had gotten better and more DIY; their charm is bolstered by the juxtaposition of electronic elements and analog equipment (like Irene, the reel-to-reel, and the telephone singer Benjamin Davis sometimes uses as a mic). For being just two guys, they dominated the cavernous, concrete-floored indoor space at Red 7. I’ve had Davis’ voice in my head ever since, singing, “Sometimes / to get by / I believe in the lie.”

Two Rocky Votolato (at Red Eyed Fly) songs gave me very little to talk about but to say that the appreciative crowd was big, Votolato sounded great as ever, and I can’t get my hands on his new record, True Devotion, soon enough.

Jaguar Love @ The Ghost Room Maybe it was the Ghost Room's relative distance from the middle of the mayhem, or maybe it was the 1 am start time, but there weren’t nearly as many people as there should be to see Portland’s Jaguar Love — as was the case when they played The District in Eugene some time ago.

Look. Do you like your guitar lines angular, your electro-pop structures roughed up with noise, your singers explosively energetic and prone to excessive hair-shaking, your vocals over the top, your live experiences addictive? Then join the club, and forget that Pitchfork gave the band’s new record a 2 (out of 10). Yes, the band’s sound is a smash-up of rock mini-genres from the last few decades; yes, there’s a certain campy kitsch to Johnny Whitney’s shrieking, especially now that he’s grown out his hair (“He’s the Muppet Robert Plant!” a friend said). Hyper-stylized and just plain hyper, Jaguar Love is basically a frenzied post-everything guilty pleasure you needn’t feel guilty about; just pogo and sing along, or if you’re a stand-still viewer, watch transfixed as Whitney’s hair takes on a life of its own. Whitney and bandmate Cody Votolato (Rocky's brother), along with Past Lives’ Jordan Blilie, were in the Blood Brothers, but where that band veered toward a more aggressively hardcore scream-it-out sound, Jaguar Love wants you to dance it out. With screaming, sure. But it’s happy screaming.

March 21, 2010 11:33 AM

Alan Tudyk and Taylor Labine in Tucker and Dale vs. Evil

Winner, SXSW Midnighters Audience Award

Eli Craig's feature debut, which showed in perfectly appropriate midnight screenings at SXSW, is a fairly low-budget hillbilly slasher comedy packed with almost gentle send-ups of horror clichés. I loved it a little bit. Maybe more than a little bit.

Perhaps you want to know a little more than that.

Tucker and Dale stars Alan Tudyk — Joss Whedon regular, funny guy, the reason the movie caught my eye — and Tyler Labine (Reaper) as a pair of down-home, PBR-swilling, dirty-coverall-wearing good buddies who are totally stoked to spend the weekend at Tucker’s new vacation home, a fixer-upper in the woods. Naturally, some nubile college students are headed ... to the same part of the woods!

Craig (who co-wrote the screenplay with Morgan Jurgenson) starts doling out the clichés even before the two camps cross paths. The college kids are cocky, privileged, fresh-faced and mostly dumb if not borderline vicious; the country fellows are good-hearted and well-intentioned and misunderstood. Dale (Labine), desperate to talk to one of the cute blondes, tries to give it a shot, only to wind up looking like a logger angel of death. The sheriff is creepy. The fixer-upper looks like a set left over from a horror movie, but Tucker and Dale love it; it’s their vacation home! Time to get to work!

Meanwhile, the dicktastic leader of the college pack, Chad (Jesse Moss), spins a classic campfire tale: Twenty years ago on this very day, a group of campers at the same spot met a terrible fate. Murder! Mayhem! Only his mother escaped.

A likely story. (Keep reading...)

Tucker and Dale is a surprisingly sweet movie, even when kids are chucking themselves into wood chippers or getting accidentally impaled on conveniently located sharp sticks (the movie’s swipes at coincidence-laden plots are often clever but sometimes a little mild). A series of contrivances puts the cute blonde, Alison (Katrina Bowden, from 30 Rock), in Tucker and Dale’s care, where she and Dale learn they may have underestimated one another. Pop psychology peeks in and provides a chance for the opposing camps to air their grievances (maybe crazed slashers just need to be understood?). The self-awareness factor isn’t as high as in Shaun of the Dead or Zombieland, where the characters know the rules of horror and are working around them; Craig plays it a little straighter, reversing character stereotypes and making the most of musical cues and overused images (some of which are direct references to classic horror flicks) to poke fun at the genre while he plays in its sandbox.

None of this would amount to much but a few giggles and gross-out moments were it not for Tudyk and Labine, who balance out the appropriately interchangeable collegiate characters with genuine warmth that turns into equally genuine frustration as the frantically dying kids make bigger and bigger messes. If their long-running, banter-filled friendship is misread, or their interests not appreciated, they don’t really mind — provided no confused campers are trying to kill them. Can’t a guy just have a nice quiet vacation? Not in Craig’s goofy, irreverent movie, which — of course! — has a warm little message about tolerance and judgment tucked in between the gory deaths.
Tucker and Dale vs. Evil does not yet have a release date.

March 20, 2010 03:10 PM

Matt McCormick’s first feature-length film is a pensive character piece with a perfectly Portland heart — something that’s easy to say and harder to explain. Some Days Are Better Than Others is a three-pronged, subtle narrative about disconnection, loneliness and slow, quiet change; the SXSW film booklet says it “asks why the good times slip by so fast while the hard times always seem so sticky.”

In unremarkable corners of Portland, three characters drift: a soft-hearted animal-shelter employee (Carrie Brownstein) spends more time making Real World audition tapes than she does talking to people; a woman (Renee Roman Nose) sorts donations at a thrift store, where ordinary and unusual cast-offs from strangers’ lives pass through her hands; a scruffy slacker (The Shins' James Mercer) makes a living working odd and short-lived temp jobs, breaking up his days with visits to his step-grandfather (David Wodehouse), who makes art films consisting entirely of close-ups of soap bubbles.

These lives overlap, but in a compact, small-world way. McCormick’s eye for the small things that change a day, or a life, is sharp and compassionate; he finds the moments that initially seem unremarkable and follows them until they gradually transform into something greater. Amid the narrative strands of his melancholy film are transitional shots that are sometimes very familiar — abandoned buildings, soaring birds, the damp grays of the Oregon coast — but here they're appropriate and effective (and beautifully photographed). The best of these, a lovely shot of the Fremont Bridge, distills the film’s ideas about disconnection into one affecting image: it's just a piece of the bridge, neither end visible. Caught in the frame, the bridge and the cars and people on it are cut off from the whole, from the very purpose of the bridge — but only for the time being.
Some Days had its world premiere at South by Southwest. No further screening dates are available yet.

March 19, 2010 09:49 AM

I was on my way somewhere else when I stopped short in front of a bar on Red River.

There was something awfully familiar about the sound issuing from the doors, though it seemed unnatural to hear such a song in daylight. It was music for midnights, at the very earliest. But I had to know.

So I stepped inside, and lo and behold, it was indeed Eugene's own macabre psychobilly punks The Sawyer Family.

(It's a hastily snapped iPhone shot; be kind.)

There should have been more people in the bar, but those that were there seemed to be enjoying themselves. (It's hard to tell how much enjoyment is present in a room full of people who almost certainly haven't gotten enough sleep and equally almost certainly are already nursing hangovers with hair of the dog.) Seth Sawyer signed off, "We'll see you fuckers next time." Hopefully there are more of said fuckers when the band next lands in Austin.

March 18, 2010 12:03 PM

The word Micmacs, director Jean-Pierre Jeunet (Amelie) explained before the screening of his new film, is slang for “shenanigans,” a word which sounded impossibly playful in Jeunet’s thick French accent. “Impossibly playful” is also one way to describe the film, which is as sweet and joyful and imperfect a revenge fantasy you might hope to see.

Micmacs begins unexpectedly, for a Jeunet film: A soldier steps on a landmine. The strongest response to this is displayed by a donkey, which runs off, honking loudly. Back in France, the father’s death has a greater effect on his young son Bazil, who finds clues to the cause of his father’s death in a box of the man’s possessions.

Years later, Bazil (Dany Boon) is working in a video store when a stray bullet lodges itself in his head. Bazil survives, but not without losing his job and his apartment. Before long, he’s taken in by a gaggle of oddballs — among them a contortionist, an inventor, a human calculator and Jeunet regular Dominique Pinon as a would-be world-record setter — who live as a patchwork family outside normal society. Mama Chow (Yolande Moreau), who lost her own children in a hall of mirrors, feeds and scolds them all in turn.

(Keep reading...)

Jeunet’s films conjure a good deal of magic by finding the fantastical in the seemingly ordinary. His characters see things less for what they are than what they have the potential to be (the Rube Goldberg-y contraptions that make use of everyday objects; the box of knickknacks that sets off a life-changing series of events), which heightens their disconnection from normality. Color, in Jeuent’s off-kilter worlds, manifests in a gorgeous and unsettling manner: In Micmacs, the golden tones of the cluttered oddball family’s den contrast with the burnished richness of an arms dealer’s home; cool green seeps in for discomfort and the unforgiving brightness of reality is a rare sight. Jeunet and cinematographer Tetsuo Nagata (La Vie en Rose) give Bazil’s story a sepia-toned sheen that amps up its fable-like quality. The world is a cold, hard place, but find your people, and warmth and richness will fill your days.

Warmth and richness and revenge, that is. When Bazil figures out that two rival arms dealers are responsible for his father’s death and the bullet in his brain, he embarks on a quest for payback that requires the special skills of every one of his new family members. This is how Jeunet’s stories work: Unlikely bonds between (good, talented) people will change the world.

Micmacs is clever, sweet, beautifully shot and disappointingly unsatisfying. Its self-awareness is quirky and cute but to no real end; the posters for the movie that appear within the movie are there because they make Jeunet, and the audience, laugh, but do they — or the unlikely scenarios, the gizmos, the inventions — have anything under the imaginative surface? There’s certainly relevance in the idea of the cast-offs of society taking down those rich white men who manufacture the means of destruction for people the world over, but it’s lost amid the tricks played and traps set. Jeunet is borrowing a very real issue for a very pretend story; he said in the after-show Q&A that the characters are the Seven Dwarfs, or the toys of Toy Story, which makes them seem even more unreal. As another writer points out in a thoughtful piece here (‘ware spoilers), the film’s finale, shared with the whole world via YouTube, rings false as soon as the trick is revealed. I was more unsettled by Jeunet’s thoughtless appropriation than I was delighted by the story of misfits getting the upper hand. (A side plot involving a group of African men looking to buy arms for an unspecified, presumably fictional dictator, is also uncomfortably poorly thought-out.)

In the Q&A, Jeunet said that all of his films are about an orphan fighting a monster. Sometimes the monster is literal (had he made The Life of Pi, as he said he almost did, the monster would have been a tiger); sometimes it’s a pair of greedy arms dealers. But the monster is also loneliness. His oddballs slip into a self-selected, insular, comforting but small world of their own, where strange things are possible and reality has only a tenuous grasp. It’s escapism on a grand and beautiful scale, and sometimes it works absolute wonders. This time, I couldn’t quite join the trip.

March 15, 2010 02:39 PM

I honestly thought I'd be blogging every day from SXSW.

That's the most laughable idea I've had in ages.

Since Friday, I've been in Austin, Texas, for South by Southwest, which is hard to sum up in just one sentence: It's a long-running music, film and nerd festival (the nerd track is loosely called "Interactive") at which many of the things I write about overlap and converge (what a goddamn buzz word that is). I'm here to see bands, learn about Austin's music scene, watch movies, go to panels and, well, write about them all.

So this is your fair warning. Coming soon: reviews of Some Days Are Better Than Others, a Portland-set movie about loneliness and the little things; Mr. Nice, about a Welsh drug dealer; and many other films, and an overview of what little of the interactive portion of the festival I saw (not little as in I didn't care, but little as in the inability to see everything you want to see is a big part of SXSW).

The music portion starts on Wednesday, and while I'm going to miss the nerd crowd, I'm excited to see what happens when Sixth Street gets even more batshit crazy than it is already.

If you're interested in the little details, you can follow me on Twitter at @theothermolly, which is presently half posts from panels and presentations, and half random commentary from the entire Austin Experience, which has, in the last few days, involved short Stormtroopers, cheap beer and a serious lack of breakfast tacos. Currently, it's Shiner Bock and Jaron Lanier's presentation. Lanier just asked us all to experiment by putting the gadgets away, and I'm going to play along.

If you have any requests or suggestions — things you think I should do in Austin or things you want to know about from SXSW — by all means, leave a comment!

Someday, I may even get to eat some queso.

March 12, 2010 03:22 PM

The new Seneca biomass plant in Eugene will get millions in state tax breaks while the state releases prison inmates and stuffs kids in overcrowded classrooms for lack of tax revenue.

Ostensibly the tax breaks are for "green" power, but the Oregonian reports today that the Seneca biomass plant will "release more carbon dioxide and lung-damaging particulates than a comparable coal-fired power plant."

OSU forestry professor Mark Harmon tells the paper that Seneca's claims that the biomass plant is carbon neutral are "very misleading."

March 4, 2010 12:52 PM

Yes, you could go see Alice in Wonderland this weekend. (I certainly plan to.) But you could also do something a little different and hop over to DIVA for one of the screenings of this year's Oscar-nominated short films. Pick animated only, live-action only or go all-out and watch both — though if you have to pick, for my money, the animated set is the way to go. My personal favorite (but an unlikely winner; I'd look to "Logorama" to take the day if voters are feeling at all subversive, or "A Matter of Loaf and Death" if they think Nick Park needs another shiny for his mantel), "Granny O'Grimm's Sleeping Beauty," is embedded below (be sure to watch it in HD).

The Oscar-nominated shorts show at DIVA this weekend (animated shorts, 10 pm Friday, March 5, and 3:15 pm Sunday, March 7; live-action shorts, 9 pm Friday, March 5, and 1 pm Sunday, March 7) and again over the next two weekends. Each screening is $6.

The Oscars air at 5 pm Sunday, March 7 on ABC — or you can go to the Bijou and watch them in high-definition on the big screen. Tickets are $10, and proceeds benefit The Haitian Sustainable Development Foundation.

March 3, 2010 11:56 PM

Yeah, I thought that might get your attention.

If you've somehow managed to miss the flurry of flyers, postcards and other announcements floating around town, let me be surely not the first to remind you that Eugene gets its own cupcakery this Friday, March 5, when The Divine Cupcake Café opens at 11th and Chambers. From 10 am to 10 pm, every visitor to the new café gets a free cupcake.

Yes, they're vegan. But don't let that stop you! Hey! Come back here! Look, I've had my share of dry vegan baked goods, and these cupcakes? These are not the bland vegan cupcakes of yesteryear. No, they don't have butter. Yes, they're delicious.

You can read a bit more about Divine Cupcake owners Thaddeus Moore and Emily Downing-Moore in the April 2008 issue of Chow.

See you at the cupcakery!

February 9, 2010 09:34 PM

The Eugene Citizens Review Board voted unanimously tonight that a police officer used excessive force in Tasering a Chinese student last year.

February 4, 2010 03:11 PM

When I last lucked into tickets to the Oregon Truffle Festival's Grand Truffle Dinner, the event was still held at LCC. The dinner’s current location at the Valley River Inn is a better-lit, more comfortable space that manages, despite its cavernousness, to feel a little more intimate. The floral arrangements, which rose from towering glass vases and drooped back down in green fronds, were a little over the top, but who's paying attention to the table decorations when a meal like this is on the way?

I barely had time to grab a small glass of the reception wine — Sweet Cheeks' sparkling red, which I want to try when I can pay it more attention — before we were finding our way to our table (to my amusement, VRI staff removed the table numbers shortly after most people were seated, which led me to envisioning lost attendees swiping plates from servers' hands in desperation. This did not appear to happen).

Let me be honest: I am not going to review the dinner so much as repeatedly point out, in 100 words per course, how rich and delicious it was. I was there to experience it, and the experience was, for the most part, delightful.

Also, it was a lot of food.


Crème Fraiche Tarts with Triple Cream, Shaved White Truffles & Mâche Salad with Black Truffle Vinaigrette
Chef Naomi Pomeroy, Beast

Click here to read — and see — more!

We were really excited about this one, but while the mâche salad was very good, we were a little let down by the tart itself, which, though the crème fraiche came through nicely, was a little bit dry. Later, another diner told us we must've just gotten slightly-less-than-perfect plates, as his was fantastic. Pomeroy, after her course, praised Portland’s Steve’s Cheese, from whence came the triple cream brie, and talked about the simplicity of the tart dough, which she said acts like puff pastry with none of the work. Everyone got either white or black truffles, she said, but she'd wanted both.


Pacific Ling Cod Effeuilée with Foie Gras & Black Truffle Broth
Chef Pascal Sauton, Carafe

I think I was in love with this one before it was settled on the table in front of me. "Where's the foie?" asked a tablemate, but the answer was quickly clear: in the incredible, rich broth, which left us wishing we had bread with which to wipe the dishes clean. Sauton's dish, with its flaky, moist cod, was my favorite, though my date wished the vegetables in it had been prepared differently. When it came his turn to talk, Sauton explained that the very thinly sliced cod was cooked by the broth as it was poured over the fish.


Blanquette of Oregon Rabbit with White Truffles
Chef Gabriel Rucker, Le Pigeon

Oh, Le Pigeon. Where I had just indulged the night before, sharing venison heart orecchiette and pigeon and onion soup with friends and devouring most of a beautiful piece of pork on my own. As you can see, Rucker didn't stint on the rabbit, and the taste of it shone through in the simple presentation. Some of our tablemates lamented the lack of crispy skin, but I was too busy pulling every iota of meat from the bones to notice. We missed Rucker's explanation of his dish, but you have to get up sometimes. Especially when you're eating like this.


Duck Leg Confit & Black Truffle Pommes Sarladaises
Chef Philippe Boulot, Multnomah Athletic Club and Heathman Hotel & Bar

This is the point in the night when you think someone is playing a joke on you. A massive piece of duck confit ... last? Served with potatoes cooked in yet more duck fat? A tiny pile of frisée shared this plate, and its crisp bite was like water after a long, dry walk. Not that I'm complaining — though I did feel guilty leaving any of Boulot's dish behind. His course was the least emphatically truffled of the group, but the lusciousness of the confit was such that I barely noticed. It was classic and decadent and deliciously overwhelming.

Ancient Heritage Dairy Adelle,
Estrella Family Creamery Old Apple Tree Tomme
and Tumalo Farms Classico Reserve

This is when my already sparingly taken notes utterly fail me. I'm a cheese fiend. I didn't even take a picture before diving in. The cheeses were served with local wildflower honey with white truffle. I believe the table favorite was the Adelle, but I liked the Classico, and all three were enhanced by a swipe through the honey. This was dessert; I opted to save the truffled treats from Marché Provisions, which were thoughtfully presented in an easily-taken-home bag. (Sadly, these melted together in my purse later in the evening, so my impression of them is essentially, “Sticky! Yum!”)

Afterwards, tablemates and friends dubbed the rabbit the best course, with some votes for the duck and my nod to the fish. But the decadence wasn’t over yet. Someone, later in the night, came up with the idea of shaving truffles onto the whipped cream on a Spanish coffee. Someone else — and I know not exactly to whom I owe this delight — caused an entire bowl of truffled whipped cream to arrive at the table.

Does that sound weird to you? I've had people look at me like I'm crazy when I told them about it. Listen, kids, don't knock it 'til you've tried it.

Truffle shavings in whipped cream — fresh, barely sweetened if at all — proved to be borderline exquisite. Think of the way real whipped cream coats your mouth, all that fatty goodness sticking to your taste buds, lingering and heavy. Now think of that as the delivery source of a savory, earthy, intense flavor like that of truffles. I felt like I was getting the essence of truffle, and I still can't describe it. The bowl went round once, with a demitasse spoon for each of us, and I waited impatiently for it to come around again. The man responsible for the truffle shavings was laughing, kindly, at me from the other end of the table, and calling me an addict; I was treating my spoonful of whipped cream like a popsicle made of gold.

You never know when the most unforgettable experiences will happen.

February 3, 2010 04:36 PM

... is that no one has to know (and, as Suzi points out, likely no one cares) if you're looking at pics of scantily clad women at work.

Keep your eyes on the upper left corner of the screen at about 1:04.

(Via Boing Boing. Apparently, it was all a prank — which doesn't make the video any less amusing, really.)