I have to admit, my raucous fellow diner has a point—it’s impossible to grow tired of Ya Hala’s authentic, lovingly prepared Middle Eastern delicacies.

And I’m instantly grounded, jolted from the windswept Lebanese villa of my fantasies to Montavilla’s cheerfully kitschy Ya Hala Lebanese restaurant, with its gold-tasseled copper-colored drapes, pine tree and shrub-filled window beds, pomegranate margarita-fueled joyful din, and huge wall murals of Mt. Lebanon and the surrounding countryside.

I have to admit, my raucous fellow diner has a point—it’s impossible to grow tired of Ya Hala’s authentic, lovingly prepared Middle Eastern delicacies. Chef Mirna Attar’s falafel is ethereal—orbs of ground garbanzo and fava beans tinted the color of fresh-cut grass by chopped fresh cilantro and parsley and flash fried until just a crackly, deep gold, paper-thin crust separates the moist mixture from your eager lips.

The baba ghanouj is as sultry and haunting as a Fairuz song, the lemon and mint-kissed tabouli is as fresh as a Mediterranean breeze, and the hummus has a garlicky kick to it that lingers like a lazy tendril of hookah smoke. Tiny locally-made soujouk rolled into pitas with tahini and tomatoes, olive-oil drizzled sheep’s milk feta and labneh, savory kafta kabobs, stuffed artichoke hearts, braised lamb shanks and eggplant and okra-choked stews round out your culinary excursion to the land of the Phoenicians.

For dessert, order a cream-filled Shaibeyat pastry floating in rose flower syrup, or one of three kinds of baklava, savor a Turkish coffee, and pretend you’re luxuriating in the hills of Batroun.

Next to Ya Hala is their adjoining market, International Food Supply, a tidy treasure trove of hookahs and Mediterranean pantry staples both familiar and exotic—stock up on flatbread, olives, sheep’s milk cheeses and Lebanese wines, as well as fresh pistachios, carp roe caviar, pickled sour grapes, labne, argan oil, orange flower water, and bulk spices like Syrian saffron, sumac, cardamom, black caraway and Aleppo pepper.

Sorry my dear Hugh Jackman, you’re perfectly lovely and everything, but upon exhaustive contemplation, I’ve decided that PIE is Australia’s tastiest export.

Hence, Portlander’s are bloody fortunate to have Pacific Pie Company–a spunky little Southeast pie shop that’s earnestly filling this American culinary void with their lovely warm golden baked medallions of PIE. Beef and stout pie, roast lamb pie, Moroccan chickpea pie, creamy chicken pie, chili con queso pie, spicy lentil and coconut pie, Southwest Buffalo pie. And let me not forget the carefully crimped half-moon shaped spinach and feta pasties (pah-sties), and deliciously savory sausage rolls–a sheet of pastry wrapped around herb-seasoned housemade sausage.

Owners Sarah Curtis-Fawley and Chris Powell’s pie dreams became a reality after a long walkabout through careers in custom home furnishings and criminology, the wilds of Australia and Philadelphia, and stacks of dog-eared cookbooks. The two met in Chris’ native Australia, when Sarah moved to Oz to pursue a Fulbright fellowship in criminology. She joined a co-ed footy, (Australian Football) where she met Chris, an Adelaide native with the dreamy accent to match. Fortuitously for the two of them and the Portland pie-loving public, a union was forged and the couple moved to the States, where Sarah decided to brave a big career change and follow her love of food.

Prompted by a stint at Coleman Restaurant outside Philadelphia, the hours upon hours Sarah spent poring over her beloved Nigella Lawson and Rose Levy Beranbaum cookbooks, and the couple’s mutual longing for the savory Aussie pies they left behind, the two decided to throw themselves headlong into pie-making. They returned to Australia, and headed straight to the epicenter of Australian pie lore, venerable Old Stone Hut Bakery. The bakery, which is housed in a 136-year-old cottage three hours north of Adelaide, deep in the Outback, humbly claims to make the”Best Pies in the Universe,” and had been a favorite stop for the couple following mountain biking expeditions. The bakers generously agreed to share their pie and pastie expertise with Sarah. When the couple returned to the US, filled with pie zeal, they packed their car up and moved West to Portland.

They diligently experimented with a variety of ingredients, fillings, and perhaps most importantly, pie crusts, finally settling on an all-butter version made with McMinnville’s Rose Valley butter and Sarah’s secret weapon, a bit of cream cheese, which creates the tender, airy, flaky, crispy crust that surrounds the pies. And since, like your mother always told you, it’s what’s on the inside that counts–Pacific Pie’s vendor list reads like the Farmers’ Market Who’s Who–Denison, Deep Roots, Heavenly Harvest, Gathering Together, and Sun Gold farms, along with SuDan Farm for lamb, Draper Valley certified free range chicken, Sweet Briar Farms pork for the housemade sausage rolls, and Lonely Lane Farm’s grass-fed beef.

Sarah and Chris serve their oven-warm pies, pasties, sausage rolls, crisp salads, savory homemade soups and dozen or so sweet pies (think Chocolate Peanut Butter Pie, Apple Sour Cream Streusel Pie, Pumpkin Cream with Ginger Cookie Crust, and Drunken Pear Pie made with neighboring Deco Distillery’s Ginger Rum), from a sleek little bi-level bar-endowed café along SE 7th Avenue.

If your lunch hour is limited, buy your pie, eat it in the light-filled little upstairs pie nook, bus your table and go, or if you’ve got a bit more time for a pie walkabout, sit down in the café’s main dining room and order an Aussie Caesar and basket of addictive mini-sausage rolls with housemade beer mustard to start. Or stake your claim to a bar seat and settle in for a cricket match, which stream on the television perched over the array of Southern Australian, Tasmanian and West Coast beers, and (my personal favorite) sparkling Shiraz. And for those who’d like to fill their freezer with pies and pasties for a rainy day, a case of fresh frozen goods is standing by.

Sorry my dear Hugh Jackman, you’re perfectly lovely and everything, but upon exhaustive contemplation, I’ve decided that PIE is Australia’s tastiest export.

Reminisce about your favorite jellyfish encounter over the Kalbi–juicy grilled Carlton Farms ribs rolling around in sweet Korean-style marinade, tender boneless Teriyaki Chicken thighs, or the Kalua pig plate–a pile of smoky shredded pork mingling with shards of steamed cabbage.

After that, the previously disregarded pool was my best friend, and when I was tired of swimming solo in my private, jellyfish-free pool, I’d bike to the nearest town for plate lunch and a shave ice. I couldn’t get enough of this fantastic treat–a distant, far more refined relative of the grainy, gaudy, faux-flavored snow cones of my youth thus far. I’d watch in wonder as a bored, flawlessly-tanned shack boy/girl smothered coconut ice cream and azuki beans with a crown of feathery ice crystals, then drenched everything in coconut syrup and mango juice. It was the essence of Hawaii in a cup and best of all, it didn’t sting.

Over the years, I’d forgotten all about my bittersweet Hawaiian experience, but when Ate-Oh-Ate came to town, one look at the big green shave ice machine on the front counter, and I could smell the Hawaiian Tropic tanning oil and taste the macaroni salad and mango juice all over again.

Ate-Oh-Ate, the pet project of Simpatica Dining Hall & Laurelhurst Market chef-owner and Kona native Ben Dyer (808 was his Aloha State area code), serves up Hawaiian plate lunches, big ol’ sandwiches and burgers, a Poke of the Day, and a dozen or so savory sides like cucumber kimchi, pickled daikon, sweet potato tempura, and of course–Spam musubi.

Reminisce about your favorite jellyfish encounter over the Kalbi–juicy grilled Carlton Farms ribs rolling around in sweet Korean-style marinade, tender boneless Teriyaki Chicken thighs, or the Kalua pig plate–a pile of smoky shredded pork mingling with shards of steamed cabbage. Or, attempt a crispy pork belly and kimchi relish-topped Aina Burger or massive bowl of Saimin–a Hawaiian noodle soup dish reminiscent of ramen, with saporous slabs of roasted pork belly, fish cake and soft-boiled egg surfing in a mild, noodle-choked chicken and shrimp broth. Next up, an authentic Hawaiian shave ice drowned in housemade coconut, plum, strawberry, vanilla or pineapple syrup, or good old POG juice, over soft coconut ice cream. Heavenly.

Surfing streams on the television next to the open kitchen–order a rummy Mai Thai or Dark n Stormy, Primo lager, or icy Waialua Soda Works pineapple soda and settle into the big wood booth upon which hangs a picture of Mr. Tasty Waves himself, the iconic Spicoli, and have yourself a mini Hawaiian holiday minus the irksome sand in your tie-dye bikini bottoms and tentacle scars.

Fortunately, when I’m in desperate need of an exquisitely fresh pre-prepared Italian dinner that tastes and smells deliciously homemade (if my Umbrian grandmother was cooking, that is), I’ve got Taste Unique.

Fortunately, when I’m in desperate need of an exquisitely fresh pre-prepared Italian dinner that tastes and smells deliciously homemade (if my Umbrian grandmother was cooking, that is), I’ve got Taste Unique, the go-to destination in times of “It’s 6:30pm and I have no idea what to make for dinner nor the desire to so much as touch a pan” need.

Describing their venture as “somewhere between a bistro and a deli,” owners and husband & wife team Stefania Toscano and Lawrence McCormick offer strikingly authentic lasagnas, risottos, raviolis, pastas, sauces, canneloni, potato pie, polenta, soup and tiramisu. Stefania, who will charm you instantly with her delightful Italian accent and gracious manner, helms the kitchen, cooking the food she learned to make growing up in her native Perugia. Lawrence, who does not have an Italian accent but is very charming nonetheless, is the general manager.

Taste Unique allows you to procure beautiful Italian take-out that goes straight from your car/bike/knapsack into the oven. Items to be baked are packaged in disposable oven-safe cookware, with directions on the lid. Save the lid–IF you have leftovers, you can snap it back on and pop the container in the fridge for later. You can buy fresh pasta by the pound, and then purchase pancetta and hot pepper-laced Amatriciana sauce or creamy, sausage-laden Norcina sauce or summery Pesto Trapanese to swirl it with. You can buy a tray of dreamy tiramisu or a nutty Torta Mantovana cake, then plate it on fine china or eat it straight from the container.

The restaurant also serves lunch in its tiny 10-seat dining room, and you can find the daily specials on their Facebook page. Try not to drool on your keyboard reading them. Stefania and Lawrence will accommodate private dinner parties most nights with advance arrangements, and if you want to learn how to make your own Spaghetti alla Carbonara or Rigatoni Cacio & Pepe, take one of their weekly classes–attendance is capped at five, making for an intimate hands-on experience. So if thus far your cooking skills haven’t left your supper club impressed, you can take them on a fool-proof foodie field trip that will.

I’d say one touch of Shikami’s steamed pork belly buns made our whole table kin–we shared three orders of them between the four of us before our first dinner there was over. Thick smoky slabs of Chinese-style pork belly enveloped in pillowy housemade wrappers, crammed with fresh cilantro, mint sprigs and spicy Napa cabbage salad and then dragged through the inky smear of hoisin sauce alongside–these are not to be missed.

One touch of Shikami’s steamed pork belly buns made our whole table kin–we shared three orders of them between the four of us before our first dinner there was over. Thick smoky slabs of Chinese-style pork belly enveloped in pillowy housemade wrappers, crammed with fresh cilantro, mint sprigs and spicy Napa cabbage salad and then dragged through the inky smear of hoisin sauce alongside–these are not to be missed.

The restaurant sits in the compact, loft-like space that once housed Holden’s Bistro, in the midst of the tree-lined stretch of NW 14th between NW Glisan and Hoyt. The decor is sparse, with glossy bamboo floors, neat rows of tables and a couple of deep cozy booths, art pieces that resemble a big twisted brown twig and twisted brown twigs with sails, and light fixtures that appear to be sprouting leaves. An L-shaped bar occupies the Northwest corner, and a huge roll-up door opens onto the street, letting the summer breeze ruffle the cilantro garnish and twig sails.

The inventive dinner menu evolves constantly, guided by the latest edible treasures Shikami has picked up that day at the farmers’ market. It might include delicately seared medallions of ruddy ostrich meat accompanied by slivers of sweet strawberry and shaved fennel tossed with shallots and ginger, a breathtakingly beautiful summer salad constructed with tender roasted quail glazed in honey-black bean sauce over local Rainier cherries, fresh basil, & sweet Okinawan purple potatoes, or a creamy risotto crowded with smoked sweet onions, dandelion greens, tiny freshly-shucked green peas, creamy dollops of goat cheese and buttery slivers of Manchego. And don’t pass up Shikami’s famous signature Tuna Tartare, a tongue-tingling version laced with wasabi and tiered with brittle won ton crisps, then surrounded by hoisin doodles and knots of exquisitely flavorful paper-thin house-made pickles.

Shikami, a sweet, humble, and always-gracious fellow who lights up as he talks about his food, closed his renowned Chicago restaurant to take a break from relentless, grueling 80-hour work weeks, and for a year he and his wife traveled Europe and Southeast Asia, where he soaked up exotic flavors and techniques to refresh his repertoire. Cooper, who had moved to Portland some time before, spun tales of the quality of life and bountiful, high-quality product in Portland, and after a visit during an unseasonably mild and beautiful April 2009, Shikami was sold.

A one-man culinary whirlwind, Shikami does just about everything but the dishes (although I’m certain he does those too when need be)–he trolls the farmers’ markets daily for ingredients and inspiration, breaks down freshly-delivered lambs, and even creates the dessert menu, one of Portland’s best. Think flaky shortcake heaped with sweet Viridian Farms strawberries in an ethereal lemon cream alongside a vivid quenelle of scarlet strawberry sorbet, a frothy coconut-mango cake hovering over a mango creme anglaise and paired with coconut sorbet, or a chocolate tart constructed of two slabs of ganache layered with caramel-entangled pecans in a housemade cookie crust.

Wrapping up your exquisite dinner with a hazelnut ice cream-filled chocolate brownie ice cream sandwich, you’ll all be thinking the same thing-Chicago’s loss is our Portland kin’s gain.

There are curtained booths–little wooden oases from the merry melee–and if you’re a recluse or want to get romantic or need a nap after downing the salmon gravlax benedict and blackberry crème fraiche-smothered cornmeal waffle during Sunday brunch, you can close the curtains and hide/smooch/nap.

The first Portland venture by a trio of well-known San Francisco restaurateurs, Irving Street Kitchen has a lot going for it. It lies in the trendy, spendy Pearl District (which insures a steady stream of well-heeled middle-aged empty nesters and a high concentration of attractive young yuppie-types), it’s pretty (and everyone knows prettiness will take you far), it’s got a hoppin’ bar (and everyone knows a hoppin’ bar will take you far), and executive chef Sarah Schafer’s creative Southern-influenced New American cuisine feels both sophisticated and hearty, with dishes like creamed white corn soup with chanterelles, maple-smoked brook trout and arugula salad, and grilled duck sausage over gingersnap basmati rice.

It’s the sort of place you can take almost anyone—a date, colleagues, family, friends, amiable ex’s—and have an excellent time. The service is friendly and accommodating, the Angels on Horseback will leave you with a bacon-oyster buzz for days, the cocktails are artfully stirred and shaken, and the bar has local wines on tap.

There are even curtained booths – little wooden oases from the merry melee – and if you’re a recluse or want to get romantic or need a nap after downing the salmon gravlax benedict and blackberry crème fraiche-smothered cornmeal waffle during Sunday brunch, you can close the curtains and hide/smooch/nap, whilst plotting how to nick the milk-bottle chandeliers.

You could take this literally, the prices are reasonable and quite a good value, although St. Jack isn’t a cheap eat. But beyond that, you know when you’re watching The Price is Right, and they’re playing that happy little song and ringing bells, and the studio audience is clapping maniacally, and people are running willy-nilly down the aisles towards dreams of a new jet ski and a Corvette and a hug from Bob Barker? It’s all very exciting!

And considering that St. Jack meets all hopeful expectations conceived when peering in the windows at its beautiful innards and surveying its ooo-la-la menu, this pretty little bistro is a comparably exhilarating addition to Portland’s elegant-casual dining ranks.

Starters include a rather decadent Salad Lyonnaise spotted with savory baby finger-sized lardons of bacon, bacon fat croutons, and topped with a skillfully-poached egg, all tumbling around in a big, deep glass bowl that you won’t have any trouble licking the bottom of, unless you have a particularly rotund noggin.

The intimate corner eatery is beautifully designed, beckoning to passerby with a cheerfully-formidable front door painted the color of a tarte au citron, brick-rimmed wood floors, a convivial mirror-backed zinc bar (so you can see yourself hearing things), perfect lighting, and cozy bistro tables adorned with fresh tulips.

At the north end, a double doorway joins St. Jack Restaurant with St. Jack Patisserie, which opens daily at 9am to provide locals with some of the most ethereal freshly-baked madeleines ever to melt in your mouth, flaky ham and cheese croissants, chocolate-glazed eclairs, Stumptown coffee, and a simple but satisfying lunch menu of salads, soups and tartines.

The dinner menu, written through the lens of executive chef Aaron Barnett’s fascination with the bouchons of Lyon, begins with a few “Petit Plats,” and you’ll hardly be able to resist the Cervelle de Canut, an oversized quenelle of creamy goat cheese and fromage blanc mixed with shallots and garlic and served with a thinly-sliced length of baguette from nearby Little T American Baker. In case you’re interested in the history of Lyon, you might like to know that literally translated, cervelle de canuts means “silk worker’s brain,” signifying the low opinion Lyon’s bourgeouis class held of the canuts, or 19th century silk workers. Fascinating, if slightly appetite-dampening. Sorry.

Starters include a rather decadent Salad Lyonnaise spotted with savory baby finger-sized lardons of bacon, bacon fat croutons, and topped with a skillfully-poached egg, all tumbling around in a big, deep glass bowl that you won’t have any trouble licking the bottom of, unless you have a particularly rotund noggin. The escargot is a particularly popular dish–-all night long the kitchen disgorges small white tureens bearing little black snails with country sausage and wild mushrooms, capped by a flaky golden slab of puff pastry. And the fisherman’s stew will move ardent fans of seafood and symmetry alike–three juicy mussels in their shells alternate with three plump poached oysters, all pivoting around a fat scallop whose cracked, deep gold surface looks like a cooking guide’s illustration for seared scallop, in a rich trout roe-laden broth.

Moving onwards to the “Plats Principaux,” agonize over bistro favorites like mushrooms in puff pastry with tarragon and cognac, steak frites, a half chicken braised in ale with pearl onions, wild mushrooms and bacon, or the whole roasted trout–the fillet stretches the length of the plate, crisp skin artfully raised to expose the tender pink fish flesh beneath, blanketing a salad of delicate French lentils, frisée and chervil in a brown butter vinaigrette.

Finished the meal with pastry chef Alissa Rozos‘ Baba au Rhum, a moist yeast cake accompanied by a mandarin sorbet, or a tarte au chocolat topped with hazelnuts and glossy Chantilly cream, then waddle home, humming The Price Is Right theme song.

But the star of the show are Frank’s handmade noodles. Made fresh each morning, they are a delight–hot, thick, and slightly chewy. These are hunky noodles, and you will develop a crush on them.

Set in a charming Victorian on Northeast Broadway, Frank’s interior is as prim and sensible as a Jane Austen character, and the fastidiousness extends to preserving the hardwoods—judging from the bright new tennis balls affixed to the bottom of each chair leg.

Owner/Chief Noodlemaker Frank Fong and his wife Ying Jun Gao, formerly of well-loved Du Kuh Bee in Beaverton, have put together a menu that showcases a variety of Chinese and Korean dishes, from Kung Pao Chicken and Shanghai Baby Bok Choy to Spicy Pork Bone Stew and Bulgogi and the menu runs from the tame (Cashew Chicken, Won Ton Soup, Spring Rolls) to the more daring (Sea Snail Salad, BBQ Chicken Gizzard).

But the star of the show are Frank’s eponymous handmade noodles. Made fresh each morning, they are a delight–hot, thick, and slightly chewy. These are hunky noodles, and you will develop a crush on them.

Lunch is the best value at Frank’s—your main dish comes with complimentary hot and sour or egg flower soup, as well as small bowls of kimchi and Daikon radish, and the prices are recession-friendly–you’ll be stuffed when you leave, and the bill barely ventures into double digits territory. There’s nothing sexier than a cheap date named Frank!

The frittata, delivered to the table in a cast iron pan, is stuffed with local produce like fava beans, green beans, and caramelized onions, and anything involving biscuits is a must–Tasty n Sons biscuits are as light as a feather and as flaky as the last guy you dated.

Bookending the block of North Williams that boasts EaT oyster bar, Lincoln Restaurant, and Ristretto Roasters, the restaurant is beautiful, with a massive roll-up door and soaring skylights that allow ample natural light to flood the sleek L-shaped dining room. Sit at the bar and watch the kitchen work their brunch magic, relax at a table for two/four/12 across along the south wall, or make new friends at the communal table perched between the bar and the front window.

Like its sister restaurant, Tasty n Sons is all about spreading the foodlove, so plates come in two sizes, smaller and bigger, and as your server will explain, they are intended for sharing. And who wouldn’t want to share the Breakfast Board–a something-for-everyone spread that includes a dollop of chicken liver mousse, pickled beets, a six-minute egg, thick chewy bacon slices, seasonal fruit, and a generous smear of olive oil-drizzled housemade labneh–a wickedly thick and creamy strained yoghurt that will have everyone at the table fencing for the last bite with their butter knives.

Other standouts include everything, I mean, Auntie Paula’s French Toast–which is dredged in ice cream batter before hitting the fry pan and, depending on the season, may come with a positively swoon-worthy rhubarb compote, or a positively swoon-worthy strawberry cherry maple compote. The frittata, which is delivered to the table in a cast iron pan, is stuffed with local produce like fava beans, green beans, and caramelized onions, and anything involving biscuits is a must–Tasty n Sons biscuits are as light as a feather and as flaky as the last guy you dated.

The menu is nothing if not diverse–step outside the realm of what might be considered traditional brunch fare and try the Shakshuka, a savory red pepper and tomato stew with merguez sausage, the pork cutlets with sauteed spinach, the Monk’s Carolina Cheesesteak, or the luscious, juicy, blue-cheese topped House Bacon Burger. And since there’s no reason you shouldn’t have dessert with your brunch, try the house chocolate chip cookies–a trio of just-baked, slightly gooey, better-than-Mom’s chippers surrounding a ball of vanilla bean ice cream, or the panna cotta, topped with brandy-soaked local berries.

Tasty n Sons takes their brunch drinks seriously–a selection of champagne cocktails tops the list, followed by a serious Bloody Mary list that includes the tequila-kissed Tasty Maria, the gin-based Tasty Snapper, and the Tasty Jerk, which boasts a side of housemade beef jerky. Or, you know, just have orange juice–they’ve got that too.

There are a few things in life I just can’t seem to get enough of (or, you know, any of)—George Clooney, mini-bulldogs, beautiful cookbooks I will never actually use, and molten lava-esque Hot Pepper Chicken Baths.

The former never acknowledges the heartfelt Chianti-grams I send to his Italian villa, the roomie is allergic to living creatures that must be cared for, I’ve started making furniture out of the cookbooks, and as for the Hot Pepper Chicken Baths, well, thank goodness for Lucky Strike.

Lucky Strike’s secret-ish little corner of the torch-flanked Hawthorne Theater is a world away from the surrounding patchouli-soaked Hawthorne ‘hood—the high gilded ceilings, red and black walls, suede banquettes, and sparkling red chandeliers dripping from the ceiling feel more bordello than bohemian.

Once inside, order a Basil Cucumber Cooler from the bar, or a pot of restorative chrysanthemum tea, then plunge headlong into some of the city’s finest Sichuan fare, a cuisine known for its wholehearted embrace of garlic, chili, ginger, star anise, and the mouth-numbing Sichuan pepper. Self-taught Chef Stefan Leopold, who developed the menu with his girlfriend/partner, Chinese-native Rita Jia You, cooks up everything from tender Guinness pork ribs and Twice-Cooked Pork Belly to the crunchily gelatinous Spicy Jelly Fish Salad and Spicy Pig Intestine.

And then there’s the Hot Pepper Chicken Bath—the fiercely fiery, hurts-so-good star of the menu—bite-sized bits of chicken fried with loads of garlic and Sichuan pepper, then tossed with chopped scallions and dozens of glistening blood-red dried chiles. It’s tongue-paralyzing, dangerously spicy and almost too good-looking to eat, kind of like that elusive Mr. Clooney.