The bright shining stinging burning star of the two-page menu is the Hot Pepper Chicken Bath–small bits and pieces of chicken fried with plenty of garlic and chile and Sichuan pepper, tossed with bright green chopped scallions, and then covered in a “bath” of glistening blood-red dried imported chiles. It’s dangerously spicy and almost too good-looking to eat, kind of like George Clooney.

Lucky Strike’s approach to exterior aesthetics could probably be best characterized as “Curb appeal? We don’t need no stinkin’ curb appeal.” The restaurant is located in a slightly ramshackle, rather shady-looking building along busy SE Powell, and we watched bug-eyed as a belligerent fellow swaggered past the seedy cigarette store next door, pulled a 24-ounce can of Tecate out of his pocket, popped it open right there on the sidewalk, and downed it.

“We’re not in the Pearl anymore, Dorothy,” I told Michelle, who was staring at a huge black van inching towards us as it settled into a parking spot on the narrow asphalt strip between Lucky Strike and the street. “Stranger Danger!” she squeaked, and we hustled inside.

Warmth enveloped us as we stepped into the tiny well-scrubbed restaurant. It’s not fancy by any means–the furniture is cheap, there are soda coolers and televisions in the dining room, a lint brush sits upright on the bar next to the Keno cards, and the scuffed black and white linoleum reminds you of your first college apartment, the one that made your mom tear up the first time she visited–but the dining room is clean, tidy and carefully arranged, and there are cheery touches like the brightly colored plastic Ikea cups that come with the chilled wine bottles filled with water, and owner Rita You is so sweet and pretty and friendly, you instantly feel at home.

I could hear something sizzling mightily in the kitchen behind the small bar, and the air was heavy with the acrid smell of peppers, prompting a near-immediate sneezing fit. We settled into one of the five no-frills tables for four, which in addition to a larger table for 8 and a few bar seats, comprises the extent of Lucky Strike’s seating.  A large television hanging from the ceiling blared the evening news, and a teenager eating with his mother at the corner table played a loud drum solo with his chopsticks.

“I want something spicy,” I said, my nose still tingling. “I want a beer,” Michelle said mournfully, still watching the black van mistrustfully. We ordered “bottomless” cups of chrysanthemum tea and a TsingTao from the list of eight Asian beers and surveyed the menu of authentic Szechuan (aka Sichuan) fare, a cuisine that is characterized by its fiery garlicky spiciness, pungent flavors, and use of the mouth-numbing spice Sichuan pepper, enough of which can mimic the tingly insensate effects of a shot of novocaine, but without the nasty drooling. Hopefully.

For the less adventurous, the menu offers a few recognizeable dishes like Pineapple Fried Rice, Orange Chicken, and Kung Pao Chicken, which is labeled “traditional Sichuan dish reclaimed,” and weenies are mocked, er, accommodated with a section entitled “On the Safer Side.”

Then things get interesting. Enter the Crispy Pig Intestine, Pickle Fish Bowl, Spicy Pork Ears, “Thousand Year Old Egg” with garlic and the pickled peppers of Peter Piper fame, and the cold Spicy Jelly Fish Salad–a tangle of long, thin, ragged translucent ribbons of jelly flesh, tossed with crisp stalks and bold green leaves of Chinese celery, chopped fresh garlic, scallions, and a generous sprinkling of red chile pepper. Biting into them, there’s a distinct gelatinous crunch as your teeth penetrate the noodle-like strips, and as you chew them, this crispy crackling sensation does not diminish. It’s both fascinating and disconcerting. And hot.

Slightly less dramatic dishes include delicious tender Guinness pork ribs in a sweet soy glaze, Spicy Seafood Noodle Soup with a rich, creamy broth reminiscent of cioppino or bouillabaisse, and a mellow plate of gingery, gently flavorful sauteed baby bok choy that’s refreshingly unsearing to a shell-shocked palate. The twice-cooked pork has thick slices of tender, meaty pork belly tucked in with slick and shiny bright green Chinese chives that have a beautifully mild, almost spinach-like flavor, a punch of fresh chopped ginger, squishy salty little fermented black beans, and of course, pepper, and more pepper.

But the bright shining stinging burning star of the two-page menu is the Hot Pepper Chicken Bath–small bits and pieces of chicken fried with plenty of garlic and chile and Sichuan pepper, tossed with bright green chopped scallions, and then covered in a “bath” of glistening blood red dried imported chiles. It’s dangerously spicy and almost too good-looking to eat, kind of like George Clooney.

That night, the crowd was eclectic, a mixture of neighborhood folks and fans from afar. Once the aspiring drummer left, he was replaced by a lone man with a staring disorder, a couple with an appallingly loud kissing disorder, and a girl who smuggled in her little black shitzu in her laptop case. Between our fellow diners and the big television’s programming change from news to Inside Edition, we could have been entertained all evening, but alas it had been a long day, and it was time to ask for dessert (they don’t have dessert right now), play a quick game of video poker (through the swinging doors across from the bathroom), and start the long trek back home.

Since I like to get lucky, so to speak, with Saturday’s soup of the day—the Bún bò Huế, a rich spicy noodle soup with strips of tenderloin beef, spongy pork balls, and lemongrass—I anxiously set my alarm on Friday night and sleep fitfully, dreaming of pork balls and empty bowls. I suggest you do the same. The alarm-setting, I mean, I wouldn’t wish my No Soup For You dreams on anybody.

Finding Há VL the first time can be a challenge—it’s secreted away in the north corner of tiny Wing Ming Plaza mall at SE 82^nd & SE Clinton, just up the way from the legendary Fubonn Shopping Center. While it doesn’t look like much from the outside, the interior of the little soup house is as warm and charming as can be, with avocado green walls, carefully hung bric-à-brac, and a curiously ample supply of pastel-hued straws. A cooler holds an array of brightly colored canned refreshments, from the usual soda pop suspects to Yeo’s and Foco fruit juices and Capri Suns. A little television in the corner plays a constant stream of Vietnamese music videos, talk shows and soap operas, which add a friendly background hum to the restaurant, and while you may not understand a word of the programming, trying to interpret the plot lines will keep you busy as you wait anxiously for your soup. If you’re a devoted fan of Pok Pok, you can also pass the time trying to get Andy Ricker’s autograph–the first time I ever slurped soup at Há VL, William Voung H. told me proudly that Andy breakfasts frequently at the restaurant before heading into work, and sure enough, midway through my bowl of soup, Andy walked in and sat down next to us.

Luu keeps a careful eye on her hungry patrons as they sip the fragrant house tea that tastes of almonds, while she stirs and scoops her gorgeous soups and makes crispy bánh mì sandwiches on Lanvin Bakery bread, in her tiny kitchen surrounded by hanging crystals and wind chimes—harbringers of, you guessed it, luck. May there be soup luck for all.

Piazza Italia reminded them of Italy–the pasta, the wine, the World Cup games on the big screen, the accents, the bickering.

“Nice kid,” my dad piped up, “Refilled my iced tea every time it got near the halfway mark.” He brightened at the memory. My dad would make a terrible food critic, he’d give four stars to any restaurant with exceptional iced-tea refilling abilities and a good burger on the menu.

“And the spaghetti mare,” my mom went on in that same sappy voice. “It was delicious…the sauce was so fragrant, and the pasta was so fresh, it must have been handmade. It was just like the pasta we had in Orvieto, remember that little trattoria?”

My parents had been bitten by the Piazza Italia bug and were certifiably smitten, which I’ve noticed, is nothing new. When my favorite Brits, Matt & Sian, lived here, they were mad about Piazza Italia–or “Piazzer Italier,” as they pronounced it. It reminded them of Italy–the pasta, the wine, the World Cup games on the big screen, the accents, the bickering. They ate there at least once a week.

You’ll be equally taken with this likeable little Italian joint-meets-pretty Pearl District, if you can get past the sometimes insufferable clientele, like the lady at the table next to me, who kept asking “Shu-Shu” if he wanted “some of Mommie’s yummies” and using her fork to poke bits of wild boar ragu sauce into Shu-Shu’s furry chops. You can’t blame Shu-Shu for lapping it up though, Piazza Italia tosses delicious, satisfying homemade pastas like the creamy proscuitto and  black pepper-kissed Linguine Squarchiarella and hearty lasagna with meat and bechamel sauce. Start your meal with the popular Antipasto Italiano plate–grilled vegetables, beans, and smoked salmon, or the Insalata Bresaola–dry cured beef with arugula and a bright touch of lemon, don’t hesitate to order a bottle of wine off the 100 % Italian-wine list, and get dessert so you can soak up this boisterous slice of Italian life just a little bit longer.

Using soup as a barometer of culinary excellence, you’ll not be surprised that Chef Denton’s beautiful chowder is just the beginning of a menu where nearly every dish is on the A-list.

Some people feel that how soups are executed is an excellent test of a chef’s mettle. I’d have to agree, because a truly admirable soup is something be marveled at. And using soup as a barometer of culinary excellence, you’ll not be surprised that Chef Denton’s beautiful chowder is just the beginning of a menu where nearly every dish is on the A-list. Start with Metrovino’s superlative oyster trio–three fat oysters who’ve been stripped of their shells and are lounging around in Chinese soup spoons wearing cucumber mignonette, ponzu wasabi, and horseradish cocktail sauce dressing gowns. I never cease to be delighted by the tiny ball of wasabi perched on the edge of Oyster No. 2’s spoon. It  is a small touch that characterizes the menu–fun and adventurous, but never over the top.

The menu is brief but fraught with difficult decisions–do you opt for the grilled heirloom tomatoes and green bean salad with anchovy-brown butter vinaigrette, or do you indulge your omnipresent yearning for smoked trout and get the smoked trout and cucumber salad with warm potatoes and braised pork belly? Duck leg confit with warm lobster and green bean salad, grilled halibut with potato tomato gratin, or roasted eggplant and goat cheese ravioli in a summery basil pesto broth? Get them all, I’d say. You only live twice.

Metrovino occupies the lovely northeast corner space of the Pearl District’s elegant Tanner Place condominiums. The L-shaped restaurant is separated into several distinct dining areas, each with their own personality–the quiet semi-private row of booths to the left, the rather opulent upper dining area to the right, a small bottleshop in the middle, and the classy but cheerful bar area and sizeable patio at the west end. The bar hosts Metrovino’s crown jewel, a pressurized Enomatic wine preservation system, which allows Metrovino to offer more than 80 wines by the glass, including unusual and spendy wines you weren’t planning on being able to otherwise afford to try until you received your inheritance. But lest I give you the impression that your withered billfold will spend the evening trying to burrow a hole out of your Dockers before the bill comes, the extensive wine list has a list of $9 and under pours, and a tiered tasting system that allows you to purchase wine by the bottle, glass or 2.5-ounce taste, which is an excellent option for both gourmands on a very tight budget and for your mother who doesn’t necessarily hold her liquor well and starts telling the server your life story at roughly the 4-ounce mark.

Lest I forget to mention Metrovino’s exceptional happy hour, on weeknights from 4-6pm, for the price of a mediocre Whole Foods deli meal, you can slurp naked oyster trios, nibble on salmon gravlax bruschetta served with a healthy dollop of edamame purée and grapefruit, and get your vitamins with a citrus and pine nut- specked roasted beet salad, while enjoying $5 cocktail and house wine specials.

“I don’t think you’re supposed  to make a right turn in front of the streetcar,” someone else groused.

“Silence, naysayers!” I shouted. “Get tranquil ASAP, we’re going to Chef Naoko’s!”

Portland foodsters in the know have a quiet love affair with Chef Naoko Tamura’s cuisine, and a loyal contingency of bento-ites streams into the cheerful little cafe for lunch Tuesday through Saturday without letup.

It’s not unusual to come across someone in your lunch club, even a serious food lover, who hasn’t yet investigated this unassuming little downtown bento cafe, located on SW Jefferson and SW 12th, just past the bright yellow and purple awnings of Olé Olé and West Cafe. But Portland foodsters in the know have a quiet love affair with Chef Naoko Tamura’s cuisine, and a loyal contingency of bento-ites streams into the cheerful little cafe for lunch Tuesday through Saturday without letup.

The cafe is Chef Naoko’s first restaurant venture in the United States; she’s already made quite a name for herself in Tokyo, where’s she’s had a family restaurant and consulting business for over 30 years and has deep family roots in the culinary arts. Her commitment to sourcing only the highest quality local and organic ingredients, well-honed kitchen skills, and sense of food artistry is evident in each exquisite bento box that comes out of the kitchen–you won’t see any sensational kyaraben-style presentations, just beautifully solid offerings like grilled fish in a delicately flavorful house ginger teriyaki sauce, Japanese-style fried shrimp, marinated chicken, or grilled tofu, accompanied by pretty piles of bright green organic greens, house pickle salad, higiki seaweed with barley, brown rice sprinkled with black sesame seeds, and perhaps a quivering cube of fresh tofu topped with a dollop of inky sweet Japanese miso sauce. Though not as aesthetically dramatic as their supermodel bento brethren, the rice bowls are hearty and delicious, with grilled ground chicken and tofu cakes served atop lightly cooked vegetables and cabbage over steamed rice–an ideal meal when paired with housemade iced tea on a midsummer’s day or traditional Japanese roasted tea on a midwinter’s day.

If you’re lucky enough to get a lunchtime table in the tiny cafe, which is painted in soothing shades of celery and grass green and accented with leafy live plants and fresh produce, you can sit solo at one of the small round tables that line the front window and watch eagerly as each black-lacquered bento box is carried through the dining room to its lucky owner, or join friends outside at one of the sidewalk tables that are put out in fair weather and sip a Hot Lips strawberry soda whilst discussing the finer points of streetcar rightaways.

“That was literally, the best bento I have ever had in Portland,” someone said quietly on our way home from Lunch Club. I tried not to look smug, but…I couldn’t help it. It’s good to be in the bento know.

Beaker & Flask is a scintillating addition to Portland’s ultra-energized dining and drinking scene, the kitchen and bar functioning as a good-looking gastronomical power couple. 

On June 8, frustration with the OLCC and the languid pace at which they were issuing B&F’s liquor license reached a boiling point and Twitter followers read a defiant “ah screw it, tired of waiting on someone else to do their job. Booze or no booze, we open June 25. See y’all then.” Calendars were marked, fingers were crossed, and evidently some effective prayers were said, because at 3:48pm on June 24, came the Tweet read ’round Portland–”OLCC comes through!!! We be sellin’ booze all legal like.” Then came the tired but proud tweet following Beaker & Flask’s opening day, “took it on the chin, but after 12 rounds we’re still standing. Thanks all for showing up.” 

It would seem all the waiting and drama were worth it, because Beaker & Flask is a scintillating addition to Portland’s ultra-energized dining and drinking scene. The kitchen and bar function as a good-looking gastronomical power couple, displaying an adroit balance of fine drink and fine victuals, the devotion and inventiveness demonstrated by its bartenders/mixologists deftly matched by Executive Chef and super sweet guy Ben Bettinger’s unstuffy but sophisticated menu, which both surprises and delights with dishes like pickled octopus salad with caramelized green beans and tasso ham, a silky foie gras-cherry torchon with sweet summer peaches, pillowy little ricotta gnudi, and a grilled romaine salad with salsa verde and smoked feta that made my whole table sigh collectively.

Beaker & Flask was designed by architect Mark Annen, the creative mind behind Park Kitchen and Rocket, and the handsome space is at once refined and classic, hip and laid back, with a masculine Grasshopper pie-esque mint green and black color scheme, plenty of booths, and several full-sized barrels placed in the void between the booths and the bar. I half expect someone to ride in and urgently navigate them on horseback at any second, but they serve a less exciting if more functional purpose–as giant coasters when the bar reaches standing room-only status.

The crowd is a curious medley of the staff’s friends, service industry folk, well-dressed foodies, random pretty people, neighborhood hipsters, and those just following the buzz, which makes for superb people watching. Sit at the bar and observe spellbound as one of the whiz kid barkeeps effortlessly mixes you up a powerful 12 Gauge Cocktail (Rye whiskey, orange, Rammazzoti, sweet vermouth), or sip Night and Fog cocktails (Cynar, Oloroso sherry, ginger beer, bitters) out of vintage stemware in one of the U-shaped banquettes that follow the curve of the circular front room, a vantage point which affords you beautiful views of the West Portland skyline and enough sun exposure to leave you with a bit of a sunburn on summer evenings.

Equally satisfying as both a bar and restaurant, Beaker & Flask is a go-to Portland destination no matter what your mood , craving, or company–meet your girls (or guys) for drinks and gossip, join your parents for a nice dinner, down a solitary after-work drink at the bar, or grab a snack after your barrel-racing lesson…and since they stay up late at Beaker & Flask polishing their volatile ginger beer bottles and Tweeting, it’s an excellent spot for a nightcap too. 

I laughed. He didn’t. I think he was dead serious. Certainly no one would accuse Khun Pic’s of overzealous marketing, on the contrary, they’ve tried to hide the gracious Victorian house that the restaurant resides in by growing a lush thicket of trees, vines, and thorny brambles over the entire building. Your greenery weary eyes won’t register it as anything more than yet another clump of Oregon shrubbery, albeit a strangely-shaped one fronted by a mysterious wrought-iron gate, sitting smack in the middle of the busiest commercial zone on SE Belmont Avenue.

Once inside, you’ll find a meticulously restored old Victorian home, with ornate mouldings and delicately patterned gilded ceilings. No two tablecloths are alike, the furniture is a pleasant hodge podge of antique wooden chairs and cabinets, and gaudy gold goddesses drape themselves across the mantel and watch over the front door and creaky black gate, which only unlocks for three scant hours Tuesday through Friday, three-and-a-half on Saturday.

Classical music plays softly as Jon calmly makes his way to and from the kitchen, bearing tall glasses of ice water, frosty bottles of Singha and elegant gold trays holding wide ceramic dishes filled with Som Tum (papaya salad), Pad Kee Mao (drunken noodles), Gang Kheo Wan (green curry), and slightly sloshing bowls of coconut soup that send curlicues of steam into the air.  His wife Mary makes each dish to order from well-worn family recipes, using fresh ingredients and housemade sauces, and she sounds a sharp bell when dishes are finished. Heaven help Jon if he dawdles in picking them up, sit close enough to the kitchen and you’ll hear what I mean. The walls are thin.

Back in the kitchen the throaty burble of a deep fryer signals that your order of Po Pia Sod (fresh spring rolls) is nearly at hand. Crunchy batons of golden fried tofu hide among delicate vermicelli noodles, slivers of bright orange carrot, freshly cut romaine, and the surprising sweet crispness of paper thin apple slices, and the accompanying peanut sauce is fantastic–rich and beautifully balanced, served in a fluted ramekin with a simple sprinkling of crushed peanuts. The entire menu is one page and consists of 11 traditional but expertly executed dishes–starters like the above mentioned spring rolls and lightly battered and fried tofu, hot and sour Tom Ka soup and lime-kissed papaya salad, a vividly colored and brightly flavored Vegetable Garlic Chili Sauce Stir Fry, and a handful of rice and noodle dishes like Pad Thai, Pad Kee Mao, and Kow Pad.

Khun Pic’s is a unique dining experience in many ways, and I’d like to offer a few tips to help you get the most out of your visit. First, any impatient dining companions must be warned that this restaurant has one cook (Mary) and one server (Jon), and as the menu says, “If you have a fixed amount of time to spend with us, please ask your server for an honest estimate of the time required for preparing your dinner.” Invariably, the honest estimate will be too long for the impatient diner, so you may wish to sedate them before coming, or leave them home altogether. Choose your own table when you walk in, be prepared to wait to order and then wait to eat, don’t be shy about requesting your food spicy, bring cash because your credit’s no good here (exact cash, if you want to avoid the wait for change), and above all else–relax and enjoy this magical little place.

When I’m tired of floating around the Taj Mahal looking ravishing, I plunk down in a dreamy white leather banquette  draped with long flowing curtains and padded with jeweled pillows, and drink mango lassis and eat hot nut and raisin-studded Naan until the tigers come home. That’s kind of what it’s like at East India Co., except without the menagerie and snakes.

That’s kind of what it’s like at downtown Portland’s East India Company Grill and Bar, except without the menagerie and snakes. Venturing in through the neat, long, and narrow bar, you’ll think that it’s a pleasant, classy sort of place that smells very nice. Then, you’ll enter the voluminous back dining room, where you’ll be dazzled by the all-seeing eye in the ceiling that closely resembles a roulette table or a spaceship, depending on how many Masala Mojitos you’ve had, and then, you’ll see those magical white booths. You should sit in one, unless of course it’s already occupied. 

But back to the food. I get excited about Naan. I really do. I can’t help it. Soft, warm, chewy, blistery, dipped in fragrant, exotic sauces–Naan is one of my favorite comfort foods. And if you judge a restaurant by its bread, East India Company gets a blue ribbon, even if you haven’t yet tried their wickedly good Muchli ka Tikka–grilled fish marinated with roasted garlic, mustard, curry, fresh ginger and lemon, or the silky Murg Korma–chicken with cashew, ginger and fenugreek in the house Korma sauce. Spice lovers, prep your taste buds with an icy hot Rangpur Chill (fresh cucumber and Indian green chiles with lime gin), then dive into the explosive Gosht Vindaloo–slow-cooked leg of lamb with potatoes in a hell-fiery Vindaloo sauce.

Bewon captures the spirit of the secret royal garden it was named after–calm, hidden, and exuding an effortlessly elegant aura that makes your meal both a culinary adventure and a mode of relaxation.

Whether you are a Korean food novice or can sing 1001 sijo extolling the virtues of bibimbap, you will love every course, dish, and minute you spend in Bewon. Named after a secret royal garden, it captures the spirit of such a place– calm, hidden, and exuding an effortlessly elegant aura that makes your meal both a culinary adventure and a mode of relaxation. 

Bewon’s prix fixe menu, or Han Jung Shik, is not only one of the best prix fixe values around, but is a sublime introduction to Korean cuisine. A traditional Korean meal that includes your choice of a main dish and seven courses like Hobak-juk–a rice porridge made with three different pumpkins, and Japchae–delicately translucent stir fried sweet potato noodles tossed with fresh vegetables, each course positively sparks with exotic flavors and each dish is like an delightfully surprising little gift.

The wine list is reasonable and includes a nice selection of whites and reds as well as a half dozen or so Korean rice wines like the traditional Bu-ja and mild, highly refined Kang-jang Bek-se-ju, or try one of the four Korean beers offered in the bottle.

“That’s a heart attack boat!!” my date hollered when he caught his first glimpse of Bunk’s massive meatball parmigiano hero.

The sweet talkin’ woman at the front counter, aka Annie, will gladly add a side order of smoky sweet potato salad with bacon and egg or some of the city’s best red beans and green rice to your ticket, and hold on tight to your half-sour Picklopolis pickle–they have a way of sneaking off your brown paper-lined tray.

When the crispy Kettle chip crumbs have cleared and it’s over, savor as much of your hunk of coconut cake as you can, if your stomach hasn’t gasped surrender by now. Do ya crave a real Coke, the kind in the glass bottle, or maybe a green apple soda or Boylan Bottlework’s ginger ale? Bunk has it. Maybe your ticket to the moon is the Bunk-mosa, a house concoction of Miller High Life and OJ, poured right at the counter, you keep the bottle. Getting to the point, if you haven’t tried the Elvis yet–peanut butter, jelly, avocado and bacon–take the last train to Bunk ASAP.

*A free Picklopolis Pickle to the first person to correctly name all the Electric Light Orchestra songs embedded in this blurp. I don’t know why I did it.