El Gaucho
319 SW Broadway, Portland, Oregon, (503) 227-8794
Steak doesn’t appear on my list of favorite foods. So the news that a high-end steakhouse was slated for the old Trader Vic’s spot in the Benson left me thinking that yet another prime restaurant space had been lost to the kind of all-American diner who believes that a thick slab of red meat is the epitome of gastronomy.
When I got the assignment to review El Gaucho, I immediately began to think of wittily disparaging comments about the stereotypical steak-eater. I envisioned a restaurant full of smugly overfed rich men, washing down their well-marbled filets with bottles of full-bodied red wine that cost as much as the monthly rent on a crackerbox out beyond 82nd. Then they’d sit back, unbutton the jackets of their expensive Italian suits, and light up a fat cigar.
Eating red meat has always been about class. From the days when only the nobility and landed gentry could afford it through the 19th century and into the industrial age when workers aspired for the better life that a dripping roast stood for, a steady diet of beef was symbolic of a move to a higher station in life. For today’s baby boomers, bank accounts fat from dot-com dollars or the stock market rocketship, a big steak still says, “I made it.”
So you might say I walked in with a bit of self-righteous attitude. I knew what to expect, and I was ready to trash the place.Well, when the revolution comes, just line me up against the wall with the rest of them. I loved El Gaucho.
Not so much for the food, which is very good in a retro-1960-nascent gourmet sort of way (not unlike, ironically, Trader Vic’s). El Gaucho provides a wonderful “dining experience,” a combination of service, setting, and food that makes you feel particularly blessed. I’m not so sure the same feeling is available to the people who are doing business while they eat and get to put the whole thing on the expense account. But if you want feel pampered on a special night out, this is the place.
The interior is simple, low-ceilinged, and comfortably dark, proof of the well-worn adage that “less is more.” Dark wood and leather speak of confident affluence, the sense that this place knows it’s good and doesn’t need anything showy. Tables are spaced far enough apart to prevent conversation drift, and the big, deep, horse shoe booths are the perfect venue for an intimate dinner for two.
An impeccably tuxedoed staff somehow manages to be just friendly enough without crossing that line between server and unwanted confidant. They are there to serve you and will engage as much as you care to, but they always maintain a proper distance. Pound another nail in my bourgeoisie coffin, but I liked being waited on.
El Gaucho takes advantage of the well-mannered staff with an extensive lineup of tableside preparations. A proper Caesar salad is always done at the table, and this one replicates the classic perfectly, even using a coddled egg instead of a raw one to satisfy that fussy health department. I especially like the opportunity to specify more anchovies, and the same freedom of choice—extra croutons, less Roquefort—applies to the other tableside salads.
The most dramatic staff performance accompanies delivery of the lamb shish kebab and Cornish game hen. Both come skewered on shiny sabers, fitted with a silvery pommel and held erect by the server’s flameproof fencing glove. A match ignites the warm brandy held in the pommel, and the server flambes the meat on the sword in a fiery show.
The real showpieces of the menu, even without any fire, are the steaks. Choose a weight and cut, from the relatively petite nine ounce filet to the gluttonous 24-ounce porterhouse, and get ready for some serious protein. My favorite was a one-pound hunk of top sirloin called a “baseball cut,” which the server described as the “heart of the sirloin.” More than two inches thick, cooked perfectly medium-rare, and dripping with about a half pound of melting Roquefort cheese, it was an extraordinary steak. It did take me a few days to finish it, but I enjoyed every single bite.
A substantial assortment of appetizers, all quite rich and many with a surprisingly strong shot of cayenne, offer the best alternative for someone who doesn’t want a massive steak. The butterflied “wicked” shrimp in a sort-of-spicy butter sauce with toast points for mopping are tasty, and the crab cakes—mostly crab with minimal binder—are very good. A big plateful of cubed raw fish passes for tuna tartar. The fish was very fresh and tasted great, but thin slices would’ve been even better.
Non-steak entrees were a mixed bag. A fillet of yellowfin tuna served with a lemon butter was simple and perfect, but the roasted vegetable plate didn’t come up to standard. Sauteed spinach, a grilled portobello mushroom, steamed asparagus, a stuffed tomato, and a baked potato are not “roasted vegetables.”
Cherries Jubilee and Bananas Foster, both prepared tableside with plenty of flambe action, are fun but anticlimactic. In this 21st century world of sophisticated and really good desserts, canned cherries flamed with booze over vanilla ice cream seems like a lot of effort. If you want the experience, go for it, but remember that the portions, like all of the servings here, are huge. And you’ll still be facing the complimentary fruit and cheese plate, an idea I really liked but wish I had been warned about. The seasonal fresh fruit—apples, pears, plums, and oranges—comes arrayed on an assortment of mixed nuts. Another dish holds a massive wedge of Roquefort and dates, and slowly picking your way through everything is a nice way to end a meal.
The original El Gaucho was the downtown restaurant of choice for Seattle’s moneyed classes from 1954 until it closed in the mid-1980s. Paul Mackay, who ran the old place in its heyday, reopened El Gaucho in the hip Belltown neighborhood several years back, and it’s become a popular spot for the cigar-and-single malt crowd. I’m guessing that a similar demographic will make the Portland version just as popular, but it would be a shame to let them have all of the fun.