I never thought I would be retroactively mad at Burnside and Fracture brewing, but if Portland could've had this the entire time, I would've bypassed the whole craft beer bubble entirely.
A big fan of Dimo's Apizza, I heard they were opening up a supper club on the other side of the building in what was once Fracture and I was... loathe to try it. I understand the attraction to that business model and I realize it helps places like Dimo's and Don's establish themselves and eventually open more populist establishments (see Salami Mammi in Beaverton), but the price of entry is typically that of a better chef's table in town and I'm just fine leaving it to the first adopters.
But the resulting deli/bakery/grocery/dining room? One of the finest Italian-American experiences this town offers.
After initially considering the new take on Sizzle Pie across the street, an acquaintance with far more information and a cooler head suggested I stop into Dimo's. I was no stranger to the Apizza side of the operation and championed its thinner, crisper apizza that bears more resemblance to its New Haven namesake than its (admittedly excellent) New York-leaning counterpart Apizza Scholls. But she walked be right to the door of Specialties, and for that I'll be forever grateful.
I could go on at length about the deli case, the seeded rolls, the sandwich variety (vodka parm, roast pork and broccoli rabe). I settled in on an East Coast grinder with capicola, calabrese salami, prosciutto, calabrian peppers, fresh red pepper, fresh mozzarella, oil, vinegar, and basil. Note the lack of mayonnaise or aioli: It can be done.
Midafternoon with a bit of work ahead, I opted for an A'Siciliana aranciata (the Sanpellegrino of my youth is now made over here and tastes like Squirt--not what I signed up for). It was a great pairing, as Dimo's made good on its spicy italian and used all of its calabrian ingredients to their greatest potential. The red pepper leaking off of my hands and onto my plate reminded me of the deli sandwiches I used to train myself on in North Jersey once I started to outgrow ham and provolone.
But the greatest surprise of all: The pastry case. You put some bomboloni in front of me, I'll be pleased. An $8 slice of chocolate hazelnut layer cake and cappucino? I get it. But you make me a pignoli cookie: The almond-tinged labor of love that teaches everyone the value of a pine nut and the logistics of harvesting them? And you make it so well that I have a Proustian madeline moment that takes me back to my aunt's dining room on Easter with a box of mixed Italian cookies on the table from Meyers and Kielbs with everyone jostling for the pignoli and florentines.
I went back for two more and found I'd taken the last one of the day. For that reason, and for so many beautiful others, I'll be back.
I know I complain a lot about Italian-American foods here. I know I give Portland no end of shit for not leaving vodka sauce well enough alone and turning up the heat on what's supposed to be one of the milder sauces available (though I blame the now-defunct Three Doors Down for that one). I know I shout about mayo on cured-meat sandwiches and creamy salad dressings on pizza. But every so often a place comes along that does some many of the fundamentals right that you're willing to overlook the local nods.
I'm never going to order the spicy vodka parm here. But any place that offers a fresh mozzarella caprese, roast pork and broccoli rabe (using that name) with sharp provolone, multiple parms, meats and cheeses by the pound, a case full of pastry, a grocery of wines, gelato, and premade meals, and a gorgeous bar and dining room--unrivaled among Portland's now-burgeoning Italian-American restaurant community--will get my and my displaced East Coast family's business for as long as it chooses to stay. read more