LUNCH pages

The familiar way north – the view from just north of Westport, with Cape Mendocino vanishing as usual into the haze. 

We're on the road before the touron hordes, and get to drive the twisties between the coast and Leggett mostly by ourselves: a beautiful drive through the second growth redwoods. What BIG country this is: steep, deeply indented . . . we agree, this is our kind of country, and  dream to drive . . .

Rochelle took most of these on-the-road images, denoted with an

. . . until we come to the traffic control where they're working. Three one-lane flag-stops before Leggett. None of them too long, and they help us set the tone for the trip: taking it easy.

Lunch in Arcata at Renata’s Crêperie– more about that sweet little city below – and then it's the open road along the North Coast shoreline.

A funny thing happened on the way to lunch. Both R and I thought Cannon Beach was on the highway – maybe it was within our memory – but we must have missed the signs coming north, and the Nav Lady (that's not what we call her in private) told us to turn where there wasn't a turn then gave up on us. We consulted the map, and discovered that Cannon Beach is off the highway, a lovely little haven of elitism with a great fish store.

That's lightly battered wild caught Salmon and (maybe a little over-potatoed) clam chowder.

Lunch at Salt Pub in Ilwaco. Amazing Red Pepper soup, steamers and smoked wild salmon spread with a tasty dry raspberry and apple cider. With a sprightly personable server and an okay view:

Lunch prepared here using ingredients from Gaetano's Market & Deli downtown: linguine, Bolognese, and slivers of guaciale. Plus black currant cider from our favorite Washington cider maker, Finn River. Oh yum.

As promised, quiet day. Just now, as the light begins to fade at 8:30, two big vehicle carriers float by.

Green Wave bound for Port of Richmond, California

A few miles down the road, after a certain amount of rubbing and complaining from the hurt front end, we arrived at our intended lunch spot, The Horse Radish in Carlton. Our sweet server asked if we were having a nice day despite the weather and we revealed our recent fatal encounter with the local wildlife.

“Oh, you poor things!”

Apparently she told her colleague who brought me my Blackberry Cider and said “Terry told me about your accident, and you must be shaken up.”

“Nowhere near as shaken up as that poor deer,” I suggested.

“Well, anyway, this is on the house, and we hope you have a good lunch.”

And we did. Luscious Eggs Bene and a gorgeous little salad.

Forty-something miles later, we're at Chuck (Rochelle's brother) and Mona's in Silverton, where R's older brother's wife also lives, and so while I navigate the insurance reality, she has family to catch up with.

Slow start with good conversation with Vanessa, then out to lunch at Kachka, an Eastern European restaurant in southeast Portland.

Amazing new flavors. Two plates of dumplings, pelmeni (Siberian style pork and beef) and cherry vereniki (Ukrainian sour cherry) got eaten before I could take a picture.

About five miles short of Breitenbush we were stopped and told we had a two hour wait . . . but begging pathetically helped, our flagperson interceded for us, and we managed an iffy route around the construction; Rochelle kept her eyes shut.

Breitenbush is lovely, very hip and wellness oriented, young. Two lovely pools, one forget-your-body, the other hot; after awhile we filled a private tub and lounged until lunch.

Vegetarian and delicious. 

We have enjoyed Wild Rose before, but this time, it was lunch (our big meal) and I was a little better prepared. We had Grandfather's Tom Kha Gai (Chicken, sweeter than expected, chock full of chicken and 'shrooms) and the Northern Thai Sampler, pork larb, what southerners call chitlin's, and sticky rice to be rolled (by hand) into little ovoids and dipped in one of the sauces. Hot!

Lunch at Pennyroyal Farm: a delicious cheese board featuring their products, and a glass or rosé of pinot noir.

Then back through the Redwoods to the foggy coast and home . . .