Where an amateur drinker goes to a cider pairing dinner

A few weeks ago, I got an invitation to a dinner at Davis Street Tavern, showcasing Crispin Cider. It sounded good. And I thought, this will be a good opportunity to meet people and not say stupid things. And network. Since you are going to be unemployed like any minute. Also, to eat delicious food. Which is actually the highest priority. I mean, who cares if I ever work again, as long as I get to eat fabulous food. Right? I see you nodding your head and rubbing your belly. Of course right.

So when I got there, they were passing out cocktails - the Crispin Mule: vodka, lime, ginger and light hard apple cider. I held it in my hand, nervous to drink because 1. remember how I am a lightweight and not an expert drinker, or even really a drinker at all? 2. I hadn't really eaten all day 3. what if I get tipsy before dinner and say stupid things, which would defeat one of my major goals for the evening. So I took baby sips and chatted with some lovely people and I largely avoided saying anything stupid.

When we finally sat down, they brought out a big, tall, overwhelming glass of Crispin Brut cider and a plate of Kumamoto Oysters with apple mignonette and trout roe. The cider was very delicious and went with the oysters (oh and I was an oyster virgin before this dinner. I like them!) and the mignonette quite well. I took about two sips of the cider and set it aside with my nearly full cocktail. Around this time my head started buzzing just a bit. (Stop laughing. I'm not kidding. It can happen THAT fast. When you are like me.)

Next course: Pan Roasted Quail with quinoa and hazelnut stuffing, chestnut puree, sauteed escarole and marionberry gastrique. Oh. And another big, tall glass of cider. This time, it was the Original cider. I had never had quail before, but it was quite lovely and packed full of flavor. The chestnut puree was very hearty - I think I want to try to make it sometime. It added a bit of heft to the dainty course. Incredible flavors all merged together in my mouth and the cider was a perfect complement. Again, I set aside my nearly full cider glass next to the two other drinks by my plate. I was looking in awe at the people around me who were drinking all of their drinks. How do they do it? Ah well. Next.

Grilled pork loin with grilled figs, butternut squash and marcona almond puree. This was the star of the dinner - the juciest, most flavorful pork loin I have ever had, popped with a spicy, red-pepper flake spiked dish of butternut squash and the intense mellowness (it seems a contradiction, I know. But it's not. Just go with it, okay?) of the almond puree. Oh. And another big tall glass of cider. Honey Crisp. This cider made the biggest impression on me because I could really taste the honey and it was very nice with the pork. Very. Two sips, set aside.

My plate was now surrounded by three full glasses of cider and a cocktail. I was starting to feel bad. But I didn't want to get drunk and sloppy and unable to walk or drive just so I wouldn't hurt someone's feelings. That would be super bad form, right? I was thrilled when the waitress offered to remove my embarrassment. "It's a bit overwhelming, isn't it?" she said in an understanding voice, as she put the glasses on her tray.

At this point I was so full. So full. But dessert was next. I was enjoying listening to people around me and at some point, I started talking about Greece. But I was nervous, you know, talking to people, because that's scary and I think my voice got kind of loud and my face got red as I talked about how much I loved it. The girl next to me had traveled all over and she probably thought I was silly, getting all excited over Greece, because she talked about traveling through Europe as if it was a completely normal thing that everyone does and she clearly did not get four-year-old-giddy over it like I did, even though she was probably half my age. Okay, maybe not half. But something young. I wonder if I will ever be as nonchalant and sophisticated about traveling as she is. I'm going with NOT.

Oh and then, as I nibbled on the breathtaking soft ginger snaps with sage whipped cream, someone said something about my blog and I didn't quite hear it but I laughed anyway. Then I realized they might be waiting for a response, so I said, "I'm sorry, what did you say? I didn't quite hear you." She said: "I can't wait to read what you write about this dinner." Oh she was nice. I laughed as my face turned 40 shades of red and I filled my mouth with the cookie so I couldn't talk anymore. The drink they brought for dessert was like a hot buttered rum, but it was made with the Crispin Honey Crisp cider. One sip and I was done for. I could not eat or drink. One. More. Morsel.

A few people gave me their business cards. I had none. But I guess I should get some for my little blog, huh? Seeing as I'm going to be spending a lot more time with it in the coming months. So, I said thank you and good bye. What a delicious dinner. I will have to go back to Davis St. Tavern to taste their regular menu - the chef, who designed the dinner to go with the ciders, did an exceptional job.

**Disclaimer: Crispin Cider invited me to this dinner and paid for it. They did not tell me to write anything about it and I seriously doubt they expected me to write a big long blog post about how I'm not a good drinker. But thanks to them and Davis St. Tavern just the same.

One More Thing... Write Around Portland Documentary

Hi again. I forgot one more thing:

For those of you who don't know me too well, Write Around Portland is a passion of mine. I've had to take a year off of volunteering and I have missed it dreadfully. I am so tickled that Director Brian Lindstrom has made a documentary about Write Around Portland that will be showing at the NW Film Center on November 10th at 7:30. Tickets are $8. I can't wait to see what I have personally experienced expressed on the screen.

Storytelling!

I know I've said this before, but Portland has the best storytelling events. I just bought my tickets for Back Fence PDX and Mortified for November 19th and 20th. You should come! Because I only bought one ticket for each event and I'll need people to talk to and laugh with.

Let me know if you will be there!

The Virgin Traveler: It's Over

I've been trying to figure out what I want to say in my final Virgin Traveler post. It's pretty simple really: I loved my trip. I loved traveling. I loved the food. I loved the people.

Now that I'm back to work, I day dream a little bit about swimming in the sea and sitting on the waterfront. I have no idea what's next for me. In the next two or three weeks, I will be unemployed and for the first time in my life, I don't have a plan for what's next. Maybe more traveling, maybe more writing, maybe another job.

My Grecian experience kind of knocked me off my feet and cleared my head. It was gloriously relaxing and beautiful. I'm hoping that my trip was clearing the way for a brilliant plan for my future. Time will tell.

Thanks for reading!

The Virgin Traveler: Our last night together, a tomato feast

The night before Chelsea and Amber left for Athens, we scouted out a restaurant that one of Chelsea's blog friends had told her about. A signless little place off the beaten path in Pyrgos on Santorini. So delicious. All authentic, Greek, and mostly tomatoes. We sat there forever. Talking, eating, relishing in our last moments.

Fried Tomato Balls
Lamb in tomato sauceGrilled eggplant with shallots
Tomato and olive salad
Stuffed cherry tomatoes with fetaTomato salad with olives and feta

The Virgin Traveler: Where We Were Regulars

It was the brightest light in the ghost town of Perissa on Santorini. The entire town was boarding up for the winter and Ntomatini was one of only three or four restaurants open on the waterfront. The bright green and white checkered restaurant was lit with bright lights and laced with vines and pots of flowers, easily the most inviting eatery open.

The waitress walked over to us, her light-brown hair bouncing cheerily in a pony-tail. She looked American. And she was. From Albany, Oregon. She met her husband, Kostas, a native of Santorini, when he was working as a chef in Chicago and she was a waitress, trying to earn extra money after a stint at Greenpeace. One thing led to another and they got married, had two adorable children, and moved to Santorini to open their own restaurant.

I wanted to know more. So a few days later, I sat down with Lisa the waitress and co-owner and over a glass of wine, she told me about how they had tried to open a restaurant in Chicago for five years, and it just hadn't worked out. She told me about meeting with a banker who responded to her presentation with a smirk and a snide response. She told me that she believed that everything happens for a reason and that she let it go.

As soon as Lisa and Kostas let it go, things fell into place for them to come to Santorini. Their friend was closing a restaurant, Kostas' family was there, it all seemed right. Lisa talked easily about their story - one she has probably told to every American who walks in their restaurant. Everyone wants to meet a guy and move to Greece - it's a fairy tale. Right?

It's just life, Lisa says. It's just the way things happen. It's not so glamorous, working 18 hours a day in the high season, managing your laundry based on the weather (no dryers), making family dinners, sending the kids to school. It's just life. Their life just happens to be in Greece.

The eleven or twelve year old daughter helps in the restaurant often, with a bright smile, wide eyes and speaking perfect Greek and English. The little boy laughs with a contagious laugh, playing with the stray dogs that stop by for a bite. Seriously adorable.

And the food. That's really what got me interested in Lisa and Kostas. Because the food was among the best we had in Greece. Family recipes. Tomato rissoles (fritters), moussaka, rooster in red wine (my favorite). The food was rich, flavorful, intense, perfectly seasoned.

I ate there four or five times in a week. It was simply tremendous. Each dish. Tremendous.

The Virgin Traveler: Mama Greece

All we needed was a little direction. Which way was this hotel? Our original plan for a hotel was not working out and we had wandered to a nearby cafe to use wifi and do a little research. We wanted to look at a hostel-type place that we thought was close. "Can you help us?" I asked Tito, the chef, who had just finished explaining to us about his snobby sister in the USA and how the little man (George Bush) had made the economy bad and how Obama was going to save the world. "Is this close to us?"

"You need rooms? You need place to stay?" Crap. "We give you place to stay for cheap and better."

"We just want to look at this place. Is it near us?"

"We give you room. I talk to owner. He give you room for good price." Tito disappeared and we tried to figure out the map.

The owner, with shoulder-length curly hair, pulled back into a ponytail, his off-white button down shirt hanging from his little round paunch over his blue jeans, approached us quickly. "You need room? You stay with Mama Greece. I call her already. She come over and show you the room. You stay like queens. Two rooms!" Mama Greece. How could we not meet Mama Greece. We relented to the bombardment.

She pulled up in a silver hatchback, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, her gray and blonde curly hair pinned back loosely with bobby pins. She motioned for us to come with her. "My place in the middle of paradise! You live like queens in my place!" We opened the door to her car, scarred by ripped out stereo speakers, giant holes gaping just below the inside door handle, and climbed in.

She sat in the driver's seat, her tank top cut low in the back, revealing pockmarks and a black bra that was half unhooked. She rattled on about paradise and living like queens as we drove less than a mile to her palace.

By middle of paradise, Mama Greece must have meant a travel agency and a rent-a-car place. She continued to tell us how we would be living like queens as she showed us the stained kitchen counter with dirty dishes on it in a Vanna-White style swish of her wrinkled arm, cigarette in her fingers.

We smiled politely and told her we'd get back to her after we negotiated out of our reservation at our current hotel. She drove us back to her son's restaurant in awkward silence and as we promised her we'd call her if it worked out, we mentally promised ourselves that we would avoid that part of town from then on. We finally found our new hotel that was less dumpy than our original one AND Mama Greece's place. Relief!