Gilty Pleasures and a Fallen Soufflé

No, I didn't spell that wrong.

I know Valentine's Day has gotten sort of a bad rap over the years, what with the whole "Hallmark Holiday" commercialization thing, but I'm actually going to defend it this time. I don't dig the pressure people feel to buy flowers or find a date, but, if nothing else, it gives us an excuse to spread the love, and that's not such a bad thing. Oh, and it usually also somehow involves indulgent, decadent eating...

My Valentine's Day extravaganza started on Friday the 13th, which, as it turns out, can be quite a lovely day. My always-thinking-ahead sweetie decided it best to beat the crowds and go out the night before the big day, so after some organic IPA at the HUB (that's another story), we pulled up to the swanky, seductive, not-sure-if-it's-a-restaurant-or-a-strip-bar, Gilt Club on NW Broadway for a guilty dining experience.

First of all, if you're not familiar with the PDX scene, this place screams Portland. The walls are swaddled in hedonistic red fabrics and leathers that glow in the low, Sinatra-esque light oozing from vintage-style chandeliers. Not a table sat unoccupied, and the milieu was ever-so-Stumptown in its variety of colorful patrons. (Dress code?!? This is my formal attire!) To our left was a long table of posh, high healed 30-somethings on what looked like an extended happy hour, not to be outdone by the modest, collared shirt couple dining quietly to our right, and of course, the flannel-wearing, messy-haired threesome at the back wall, all sitting slightly to one side so as not to look too interested in any one thing...or to sit directly on their bike locks. (The awkward mélange of "cool" that keeps the heart of Portland beating to its own drum is one of the most endearing qualities of the city.)

While the venue is called the Gilt Club, referring (I assume) to the chic setting of the place (metaphorically "covered in gold"), there is certainly an element of guilty extravagance that accompanies that notion, and the menu shamelessly reflected just that. Certain words in each description were flaunted in bold type, namely oysters, fois gras, pâté, soufflé, manchego, oxtail, and frites. Now, even if you don't know or care much about food, you have to admit that oysters, fois gras, and the French word for "fried" invokes at least a hint of the adrenaline that usually accompanies unabashed luxury. My handsome date, never concerned in the slightest with his "manhood" when he orders the vegetarian dish, opted for the fallen fingerling potato soufflé and a glass of Barbera. While I was intrigued by a number of menu items, I went with the server's recommendation (always at least worth asking, in my opinion), and ordered the southern fried quail with onion and bacon bread pudding and a warm mustard vinaigrette. And since I was getting down and dirty with my dinner, I washed that down with the infamous Moscow Mule: vodka, house made ginger beer, lime, ginger zest, and a splash of soda...served in a copper mug.* What? I'm being indulgent, remember?

OK, so now for the nitty gritty of it all. The ambiance was perfect, my date was smokin', my cocktail was buzzing with sweet, tart, and zingy goodness...and my dinner was...well, pretty good. I know, I know! Oh how I wanted to tell my man and you and the world that this was the best, most gaudily delicious noshing experience I could imagine, that I barely lived to tell about it, that I almost just keeled over in sheer satiated bliss! But alas, my loyalty is to the sacredness of food, and I have to say that it wasn't the best part of the evening. I liked the theory, really...but creativity has to be followed up with execution because while we may all be superficial first-impression hound dogs only after a pretty plate...the lasting relationships are always based on tasty, lip-smacking satisfaction. Southern fried quail is a risky endeavor, in my book. Quail is a lean, delicate little bird, traditionally served medium-rare to keep him tender and flavorful. OK, I'm from the South (spent a lot of my childhood in Kentucky), so I can appreciate a good deep fry. While the batter and fried-ness may have slightly overwhelmed the little guy, it did keep him moist and filled me up nicely. I'm not sure that the idea was executed exactly as intended, but I'll say I ate it all and didn't mind too much doing so. My biggest disappointment was the bread pudding, which may have something to do with the fact that I almost chose the dish because of it. Sure, there are plenty of bread pudding schools of thought: dense and homogeneous, moist and chunky, or even an ooey-gooey mess of mush that melts in your mouth. Well, maybe it was the savory flavors or the large, ham-like chunks of bacon, but to me, this bread pudding was more like a little lost breakfast quiche. The texture was overwhelmingly eggy and really filled out that heavy, salty mouth feel that left my meal begging for a crisp green salad or a mini treadmill. Interestingly enough, the star of the dish was the warm mustard vinaigrette. The dollop of sauce swooshed abundantly across the plate, proving to be maybe the only element of the dinner that chose function and flavor over looks. It was a thick, creamy vinaigrette (we are still in Guiltville, mind you), complete with whole grain mustard for a nice texture contrast, and exploding with the tangy roundness that the rest of the meal needed. So thank you, warm mustard vinaigrette, thank you. You are the little vinaigrette that saved the meal...the dreaded curve-breaker of the class. (Though I doubt you'll be making a lot of friends at the bus stop.)

My honey's soufflé was similar: beautifully advertised, strikingly presented, and unexceptionally executed. To me, the appeal of a soufflé is its light, airy, angelic texture. This one was actually described as a "fallen soufflé," so maybe the irony was on us, but it just came across as dry. And for the price on the menu, some fallen whipped potatoes better be pretty friggin' fabulous. And they weren't.

However! (Yes, of course there's a however.) I'm still smitten with the sultry atmosphere and theory of the Gilt Club. I think you'd be best served to go for the drinks and the lush ambiance than for the meal of a lifetime, but all-in-all it was a worthy experience. The menu really was fun and played into the theme accurately, the service was friendly, the drinks were delicious, and the environment was just what a hip young couple would want on a romantic Friday the 13th. Or a quiet older couple. Or an angst-ridden group of hipsters. Or a Pearl District office party. Or me. (Which means, yes, I'd gladly go back, but this time I think I'll try the pork loin with apple and bacon relish, or maybe the burger with secret sauce.)


*Note: I have a strange attraction to all things ginger, the words "house made" and drinks served in copper mugs. Or mason jars. This will most likely come up again in a later posting, so just learn to expect it. And love it.