A confession: I’ve been putting off writing about my last meal in Portland for some time now. Not because it left a bad taste in my mouth—on the contrary, it was an amazing, memorable, late-night dinner. Just the thought of it makes me wish I could hop a West Coast-bound flight that would get me to Oregon in time for a repeat performance. No, friends. I’ve kept this meal to myself for one reason, and one reason only: vanity. I was afraid that my photographs wouldn’t do it justice, that my descriptions would sound clichéd or overwrought, that I wouldn’t be able to nail down my experience in terms that would convey how truly great the food was. And here I am, off to the start I feared.
It took some arm-twisting to persuade Matt that we should stop at Le Pigeon for our final supper; its price point was higher than anywhere else on our list, and he was convinced that we’d get more bang for our buck elsewhere. Be that as it may, I was dying to try it, and as you may have heard, I can be kind of stubborn. I promised not to go overboard with the ordering (one appetizer each, and an entrée to share), but he’s known me too long to believe that line; it wasn’t until I played the “I’m the Guest!” card and admitted that I planned to treat to thank him for being such a great host that I got him to cave.