Review of the Week #1: 24th and Meatballs

Good evening, friends and neighbors!
As you may have noticed, I love food. I do some of my best writing when sitting in a cafe or bar, and over the course of two years I’ve accumulated a list of favorite places- some are great to write in, some have great music. Some have amazing food, others their drinks are the stars. Socialize in some, hide in others.
I’ve also got more than a few opinions on what good food and drinks ARE, and I don;t mind telling anyone that’ll listen.
So, at Emily’s urging, I’m gonna use this space maybe once a week to review the places I’ve been!
No totally negative reviews- every restaurant deserves a shot and your own opinion- but it will always be the honest truth. I’ll tell you not only where to go, but when and WHY.So let’s talk balls.

WHERE:24th and Meatballs, NE 24th + NE Glisan St.

A few weeks back, the planets once again aligned in a felicitous manner, and I had a day of beautiful weather off. Donning my favorite aloha shirt (they are always in fashion and I will fight you), I took to the streets for a bit of a wander around parts of the city I don’t often get to see.

As I walked and soaked up the sun before the inevitable days of rain, I found myself around NE Glisan. Before picking up my current job, I’d had an (obviously) unsuccessful job interview at a restaurant nearby, and found myself with some time to kill. If memory served, there was an interesting meatball place around here….

So it was. 24th and Meatballs clings to the end of an unassuming string of restaurants, with indoor and outdoor seating. The placement is perfect for people-watching on the busy street, with food well-bent toward the mid-afternoon doldrums.
Even before you walk in, the elephant in the room comes out and greets you. There are a LOT of testicle jokes everywhere- and yes, you ARE there to eat balls. Their phone number (50-EATBALLS), their menu, their advertising all make it quite clear that the dining experience will not include high-brow humor.

PictureBehold- the Baller-Melon.

Now that the 12-year-old in you is satisfied, you can medicate the adult. The beer and cocktail menus are limited, but effective. Beers are mostly local microbrews, and the cocktails are twists on classics (with yet MORE ball jokes.) I put in for a Baller-Melon (vodka, lime, watermelon juice). The fruity, neon boat drink fits the weather- cool, refreshing, and pairs nicely with obnoxiously loud clothing.

Next comes ordering, done off a chalkboard. It’s a simple progression if there ever was one:
1. How do you want your balls? 24th and Meatballs offers their wares in various platings and numbers, including pasta and sandwiches, ranging from the humble slider (one ball on a bun for $3) to the Hero (three balls, sauce, cheese, on a hoagie roll for $10)
2. Pick your balls! (Choice of Classic Italian, Pork Piccante, Chicken, or Vegan)
3. What Sauce? (Classic Marinara, Creamy Cheesy similar to an alfredo, a pork bolognese, or an arugula pesto.)

All balls apparently work with all sauces, but I go with the Classic Italian and the Marinara- just three on a plate, with foccacia, referred to on the menu as “Balls, Balls, Balls” for $7. If you need extra balls, it’s $2 a pop. Much easier than getting surgery. (Crap, they’ve got me doing the jokes now. Sorry about that one.)


Picture“Balls, Balls, Balls”… I think there’s an AC/DC song here.

My order comes out pretty quick, though I was maybe one of 5 people there on a Friday afternoon. Meatballs and booze in the sunshine? This I could do more often.

The meatballs are VERY good- very meaty, with not much filler. Most of the meatballs I’d had use bread crumbs or eggs as a binder. The ingredients are locally sourced, and the texture is firm and satisfying. The sauce, however…. oh good God that SAUCE.

This might be a nitpick that’ll earn me a beating in some circles, but I can’t stand sweet tomato sauce. I want fresh, spicy, zesty- but not sweet. Pizza, pasta, it doesn’t matter- if the sauce is noticeably sweet, it’s an instant turn-off to me.

24th and Meatballs’ classic marinara is exactly what I want out of a tomato sauce. When I think of “the gravy” in Italian-American cooking, this is what I come up with now. Take a look at that plate again. When I’d finished the balls and had run out of bread, I was sitting there scooping up with sauce with a fork. If I wasn’t sitting in public, I probably would have gone ahead and lapped at the bowl like a dog.


A cocktail, meatballs, and an aloha shirt in the Portland sunshine. I could REALLY do this more often. I need more of these balls in my life.

I’m sorry about that one too.

Picture

Not this one, though.
When To Go: Anytime seems right, but pick a day with good weather- indoor seating is somewhat limited.
Why: Because you need a simple, delicious, meaty lunch and a good drink to wash it down with on a lazy afternoon.
How: Visit them, or their other location on 87th and N Lombard St here in Portland (appropriately named “87th and Meatballs.”) If you’re stuck at home, they deliver! Order through their website at 24thandmeatballs.com, or call in at 50-EATBALLS.

P.S. Maybe you’re a purist who needs to have wine with your Italian. In yet another cosmic alignment of convenience, directly across the street from 24th and Meatballs is Pairings, “Portland’s Weirdest Wine Bar.” This guy sells wine the way I pick restaurants. Need a wine based on your zodiac? They got you. Pairings based on movies and tv, and even a wall of choices based on which awkward social situation you feel compelled to bring a bottle to. Eat your meatballs, then slip across the street for a glass of something red and weird. You might even see my wife there- it’s her new favorite spot.

Stay Classy,

There and Back Again

Good evening, friends and neighbors.

Emily and I stood in front of the sleek, modern apartment complex on St. James, our coats bundled up tight against the wind. It was carrying something beside freezing cold, though, and we wanted ALL of that. Greasy food, car exhaust, wet leaves, motion and attitude and frustration. The smells of home.
We were back in Philadelphia.

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Photo from Wikipedia

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Holidoldrum

The bakeshop is quiet as I write this. The cafe has closed early- everyone hustled through their chores, their closing routines- the maddening crush of the morning receding into exhausted bones and weary souls as they grab their coats and slip out into the gray Portland streets (threatening rain, but they always are. You stop paying attention after a while.)

 

Me? I’m waiting on quiche for the next couple days to finish in the oven. They’re almost there, but not quite. They slosh too much in the middle, where it should be an all-around uniform jiggle- “like a perfectly toned ass,” as Victoria said once. I’ve mentioned before how cooks use weird descriptors and get excited by the strangest things. Emily’s gotten used to hearing it when I’m in the kitchen.

Once the quiche are done, they get cooled, labeled (I’ve got my own system to separate the meat from the vegetarian) and set in the walk-in.
I’ll shut down the cafe, lock up, and make my own way home.

 

It’s Christmas Eve. I’ll be married in a little under two weeks. In five days, I will work my shift, and then get on a red-eye flight to see New Jersey for the first time in nearly two years.

Why this apathy, then? I want to look at myself in the mirror and say “Dude! 10 days off from work, you’re getting MARRIED, AND you get to go home again! Cheer up!” That’s what I’d like to say to myself- if I could just stop thinking it and then saying, “And then what?”

Cooks tend to think procedurally. Their days are laid out as an order of operations, and they approach much of their lives through the philosophy of mise en place- every day is a dish to be prepared in the right way, on the right timeframe, to be finished completely and well-executed.
Bakers are the same- but often 24 hours in the future. To make sure everything gets the time it needs to finish, bakers will plot out their production schedules days in advance to make sure that when the deadline comes- as always- everything is done completely and well.

The quiche are out of the oven now. Crusts of bronzed gold, filling like the last bits of a sunrise before it’s truly day. They need to cool a bit, otherwise they’ll crack in the walk-in.

I guess the holidays feel like a finish line- the wedding will be in January, the holidays will be a breeze. I don’t feel like I can enjoy them though. I feel I can’t let myself stop and experience them as anything more than another completed task. Am I afraid of something? Running from something? TOWARD something?

One of the crusts sunk in a little bit. It’s fallen back from the lip of the plate.

Not perfect, but useable.

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“Lovers and Madmen…”

Good evening, friends and neighbors.
​Joe is about my age, but he’s been cooking for way longer than me- he’s a locally respected chef, running one of the best bistros in South Jersey. It’s easy to see why- watching Joe move through service, he seems to crackle with energy. He yells, swears, barks, laughs- never still for more than a moment.
I’m helping him out for a couple nights on his dessert line- towards the end of the day, he comes running up to me and drops a crate of tomatoes on the bench.

“Matt! Dude, you need to smell these!”

 

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One Year Out

Good evening, friends and neighbors!

The hint of fall is in the air as I sit under the blacked-out stars on the patio of the Space Room on Hawthorne.

Usually it’s a lot wilder, with hipsters celebrating the coming of Friday like the weekend was starting Thursday- “Thirsty Thursday” I think some people still call it. I always really liked this kind of weather, where you packed a light hoodie for the morning and evening, but crammed it in your bag during the hot sunlit hours. It certainly seems more pronounced in Oregon than it ever did in New Jersey. I suppose that’s because most of my autumns in New Jersey were home by the sea, not out in the Pinelands or anywhere especially wooded. Even in super-hip and compulsively urban Portland, you can’t forget there are woodlands out there. The trees are starting to change, littering the streets with scarlet and ochre leaves. It’s turning into the time of year that demands light music, whiskey, and warmth.

 

Well, I’m having a martini. Cucumber dill-infused vodka, a refreshing little twist. It’s my Friday. After coming home, stripping off the remains of my work of the last week and zonking out for about an hour, I decided that was break enough, and time to get out among people and back to work.

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