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Lucy's Table

706 NW 21st, Portland, Oregon, 503.226.6126

By the time I had finished the mixed grill of Chilean sea bass and wild boar tenderloin, including the bright green stalks of very young broccoli and the surprisingly good turnip-pancetta hash, I was trying to wipe the last dribble of green peppercorn sauce from the plate with a crust of bread. For the sake of my companion, I resisted picking it up and licking it clean.

The restaurant's namesake, a favorite grandmother, would no doubt approve of this finish-your-dinner enthusiasm. Owners Peter and Kelley Kost came south from Seattle, bringing along chef Mark Fuller from Duke's Restaurant, where they had all worked together. Their goal was to create dishes with what Peter Kost calls "depth of flavor," where the entree, the sauce, and the sides contribute flavors that blend and build. So far, they seem to be hitting the mark.

The menu's divided between small and large plates, and you can construct a meal from either side. But don't pass up the firecracker salmon roll, one of the best things I've eaten lately. The firecracker in this case is the pull-apart banger used to commemorate New Year's in the UK, and at Lucy's Table it's made from a crispy wonton wrapper. A romaine-wrapped, Thai curry-flavored piece of salmon serves as the charge, and the basil-tahini dipping sauce contributes to a flavor that, to beat this metaphor into the ground, is explosive.

A collection of small plates makes for a nice meal, especially if you want to sample from the broad range of flavors that constitute the "eclectic Continental" offerings. The grilled butternut squash takes the simple winter melon toward Sicily with a glaze of Marsala wine and honey; a scattering of crumbled sharp ricotta, currants, and pistachios lend salty, sweet, and crunchy notes. Yellow lentil soup nods to India with the addition of the clarified butter called ghee, but the rich flavor that comes from bits of smoked lamb shank makes this universally good.

The ample large plates, on their own, easily constitute dinner. Nearly every entree comes with a side dish or two, and while I'd prefer them actually on the side instead of stacked in the vertical cuisine that's rampant nowadays, these accompaniments are wonderfully delicious. A big grilled pork chop, even glazed with honey and bourbon, perfectly cooked, and very good, is still a pork chop. But serve it with an apple poached with sage, pearl onion and applejack butter, and slightly sweet fig polenta, and it transcends such a mundane earthly existence.

Beef tenderloin with a roasted garlic balsamic vinegar glaze isn't everyday fare, but it reaps the same benefits from being combined with a "smashed" Yukon gold potato-which is one that is coarsely mashed, in this case with a few drops of truffle oil-and haystack onions, which are soaked in buttermilk, rolled in polenta, and fried crispy. The herb-rubbed, pan-roasted chicken, skin crackling but still moist and tender, arrives atop a mound of mushroom risotto and roasted vegetables spiked with a veal stock reduction. Keep a bread crust handy for swabbing.

Singular offerings provide the same satisfaction. Duck risotto is redolent of fresh sage, truffle oil, crispy bits of pancetta, and parmesan cheese. Wild mushrooms, pine nuts, tomato, artichoke hearts, basil, and feta cheese flavor pappardelle, the wide pasta common in roadside trattorie across Tuscany.

Pastry chef Sarah Iannaroni keeps dessert on track. I loved a recent special of a dense vanilla baby cake topped with poached apple, cinammon-currant ice cream, and Calvados-spiked spun sugar, with fresh orange slices, blueberries, and a spot of orange marmalade alongside. And there was whipped cream involved, too. So many different flavors could've resulted in a confusing mishmash, but this seemingly disparate collection cooperated perfectly. Another night I opted for the lighter sorbet trio, in this case chocolate with vodka, pinot noir-fig, and apple-sage.

The room hasn't changed dramatically from its previous incarnation as Tribeca. It's a small space, and the Kosts have wisely kept it simple. The walls are mostly bronze, and in the dim light of evening they shine like antique gold leaf. A few are a dark, midnight blue that matches the heavy velvet drapes. Icicle pendant lamps glow with a soft yellow light, and the ladderback chairs and plain white tableclothes put the focus on the food.

The wait staff is knowledgeable, and their occasional over-exuberance is countered by a genuine passion for what they're serving. During the week the clientele runs to young business types-who else in this town goes to dinner dressed up-mixed with a scattering from Portland's more casual but well-heeled society crowd. On Friday and Saturday you'll find a complete cross section of typical stumptown diners, and the place feels younger and louder.

When you walk through the door you'll see, if you look closely, a small photo on the wall above the host's station. It's a picture of Peter Kost's grandmother, Lucy Colello, taken in 1932. She's very pretty, and her dark Italian eyes seem to look right at you. You just know that if Lucy made you dinner, it would be the kind of food that would make you want to wipe up every last bit with a piece of crusty bread. She might even pretend not to notice if you licked the plate.