What’s the Deal with Portland Now?

At first glance, Ned Ludd, a Portland establishment since 2008, might seem like a showcase of farm-to-table clichés. Vintage shelves house old-fashioned jugs and glassware, while raw wood panels set the scene. The spring 2019 menu features a drawing of a chicken on an axe and a Wendell Berry quote. Named after a mythical frontier figure, Ned Ludd brands itself as an 'American craft kitchen,' a term now diluted to the point where even McDonald's burgers are 'Signature Crafted.' Terms like 'locally sourced' and 'house-made,' once signs of authenticity, now invite skepticism due to their overuse, much like how Heinz has turned house-made ketchup into mere marketing.

Yet, Ned Ludd transcends mere cliché — it’s genuinely unique. It’s a restaurant that helped shape the rustic American craft kitchen trend. Its decor embraces an eccentric backwoods opulence, with antique chandeliers dangling and wooden barrels hidden in the rafters. The name Ned Ludd evokes not just any frontier character but the semi-legendary English rebel who smashed looms, giving rise to the Luddites. A mural of him on the wall playfully encourages you to rebel against modern conveniences.

The restaurant’s dedication to using its brick fireplace instead of modern gadgets suggests Ned Ludd’s disdain for things like sous vide cookers or fast-food heat lamps. This commitment is evident in the cuisine. A wood-fired asparagus dish, adorned with thin lardo and mustard seeds, fulfills the farm-to-table ideal by capturing a specific season and place — vibrant and sharp like a brisk spring morning, with a rich, sunlit finish. This dish embodies the unique experience of a spring evening in a city that both cherishes and critiques terms like 'American craft kitchen.'

Portland was once hailed as the epicenter of culinary innovation, the city where American cuisine's next chapter was being written and the benchmark for what was deemed genuine and virtuous in urban hipster circles. However, the flip side emerged: many of these craft kitchens were located in gentrified areas with little diversity among the patrons. What started as a movement for the few became a symbol of exclusivity, with all those antlers, artisanal coffees, and named chickens seeming not only eccentric but also problematic.

But did the antlers and named chickens ever truly define Portland? Or were they merely reflections of the city’s imagined ideal — the Portlandia myth? Even a quintessential craft kitchen like Ned Ludd approaches this narrative with a touch of irony. Many Portland restaurants defy this stereotype entirely — and proudly so.

During a recent trip, I discovered surprising facets of Portland’s food scene, perhaps the most extensively covered in America: exceptional Vietnamese Mytouries, a proliferation of taquerias and taco trucks, the other Thai restaurant dynasty by Bangkok-born chef Earl Ninsom, historic gems like the century-old Ota Tofu factory, the city’s Support Black-Owned Restaurant Week, and the new wave of elite Japanese ramen. Portland remains a key food destination in America, not only for its impressive dining options but also as a hub for vital conversations about food, equity, and the future of urban living.

In the late 2000s and early 2010s, Portland became America's culinary hotspot. It was a place of inventive dishes like lamb brain meat pies, traditional butchery, contextually driven Thai cuisine, freshly roasted coffee, and craft beers. Chefs with tattoos celebrated foie gras, boasted about their mushroom suppliers, and diverged from traditional dining hubs to pursue their culinary passions. Tiny, quirky food carts offering everything from schnitzelwiches to khao man gai became essential stops and business ventures for immigrants and others with limited startup funds. Homemade pickles were a given.

The Americana and DIY vibe that Brooklyn dining embraced in the 19th century can be traced back to Portland. At Le Pigeon, a standout restaurant from mid-2000s Portland, challenging conventions is not only trendy but delightfully eccentric. The lobster-stuffed fried chicken, a dish that might seem like a stunt, actually combines luxurious lobster bisque with a fried chicken breast, balanced by fresh spring peas and slaw. This dish is designed to stimulate every pleasure center in the most bizarre way, making each bite an overwhelming yet blissful experience.

The once-novel vision of craft-culture indulgence now feels both overly familiar and absurd. Portland’s success in redefining American cuisine might be part of the reason for this. However, the playful nature of this scene now feels hollow, partly because the focus on restaurants run by white Gen X and millennial men overlooked many groups, especially in a city built on a troubling history. As Matt Novak detailed in a 2015 Gizmodo article, Oregon’s constitution explicitly barred Black residents from property ownership and legal rights, reflecting a broader but less formal practice across the U.S. Nonwhite residents faced significant discrimination, including a Klan presence in the 1920s and systemic racism that continues today in Portland.

In 2016, Alana Semuels highlighted in a widely-read Atlantic article how the gentrification of Albina, Portland’s historic Black neighborhood, followed the destruction caused by freeway construction and urban renewal. The area lost nearly all its Black-owned businesses and many of its Black residents as white hipster culture took over. The election of Donald Trump intensified these tensions, with white supremacists increasing their activities and a man who hurled anti-Muslim slurs on Portland’s light rail stabbing three men who intervened.

These revelations, coupled with their widespread coverage, have complicated but not diminished the national fascination with Portland. Adding to this intrigue is the TV show Portlandia, which debuted in 2011. This satire of the city’s quirky, hipster elite resonated across the country. Sketches like 'Dream of the 1890s' and 'Colin the Chicken' mocked the absurd trends pervading American cities, while also reinforcing the perception of Portland’s niche, expensive food culture as a defining feature of American dining.

Visiting Portland now feels like stepping into Portlandia. The city seems to be cloaked in a layer of augmented reality, especially for newcomers trying to uncover the essence of what they think they already know. It's a paradoxical mix of simplicity and difficulty to truly break free from this overlay.

Rose VL is tucked away in a small strip mall off the bustling Powell Boulevard, nestled next to a dress shop and a real estate office. Its glass front windows feature a sign boasting of Meticulous SOUPS. This is the second venture by Ha Christina Luu and William Vuong, focusing on a select variety of regional Vietnamese soups, two of which are freshly made each day.

The walls of the playful purple-and-yellow interior are adorned with soft-focus images of Vietnamese coffee service, a portrait of Vuong in his U.S. military uniform, a large family photo, and two framed James Beard semifinalist awards—one for Luu individually and one jointly with her son Peter Vuong for their earlier establishment, Ha VL, operating since 2006. (Luu and William Vuong left Vietnam separately from their children after the Vietnam War ended; Vuong, who had worked for the American embassy in Saigon, endured a decade in prison in Vietnam following the withdrawal of American forces.) Beneath the grand counter, decorated with an abundance of flowers and potted bamboo, hangs the concise daily menu—on Fridays, it includes shrimp cake (bún riêu), shredded chicken (bún thang), and fermented fish (bún mam) noodle soups, along with salad rolls and an assortment of drinks, featuring the celebrated Vietnamese coffee.

Is there anything more ideal for breakfast than a bowl of noodle soup paired with robust, sweet coffee? The savory, garlic-rich chicken noodle soup at Rose VL, complemented by a thin omelet, was deeply satisfying, while the rich, bittersweet Vietnamese coffee gave a refreshing kick. Oregonian critic Michael Russell noted in his 2017 review that diners often face FOMO—ordering one soup and envying their companion’s choice. My editor’s shrimp cake soup, tinged with tomato and a touch of funk, made me regret my selection. She took another order to go, meticulously packed with noodles, delicate condiments, and broth separately.

Rose VL embodies a classic Portland tale of culinary ambition against the odds, detailed in a comprehensive 2019 profile in the Oregonian. When Luu and Vuong launched their first Mytoury, Ha VL, they took a bold gamble by offering just two daily soups, all made from scratch by Luu, the chef. Their rotating menu even inspired a now-defunct fan blog to track the options. After passing Ha VL to Peter, who scours Portland’s Asian markets daily for the finest ingredients, Luu and Vuong returned from retirement to open their second spot. There, they introduced their interpretation of cao lau, a signature noodle dish from Hoi An, which they discovered and fell in love with during a 2014 visit to Vietnam. They are now working on expanding their family-run restaurant empire.

Ha VL and Rose VL are Portland legends. Local critic Karen Brooks lauded their artisanal approach in a 2008 review. Pok Pok’s Andy Ricker is such a devoted fan that he broke the news of their second restaurant's launch. Rose VL consistently ranks on Portland’s Dinogo 38, and locals often recommend it for excellent soups. However, it hasn’t achieved the widespread acclaim of places like Kachka or Nong’s Khao Man Gai, which are also renowned for their focused menus. Could it be too distant from the city center? Or is Luu too detached from the central culinary scene? (Early coverage of Nong Poonsukwattana highlighted her connection to Ricker.)

Some people suggested Ha VL and Rose VL couldn’t possibly match up to the Vietnamese restaurants in Los Angeles. Yet, it’s only recently that LA has been recognized as a Vietnamese food hub—thanks largely to the late Jonathan Gold’s efforts, which shifted the narrative from shallow Hollywood dining to a broader appreciation of restaurant excellence. The James Beard nominations for the non-Portlandia but deeply Portland chefs of Ha VL suggest Portland might be undergoing a similar transformation. This evolution is driven not just by chance but by the dedicated work of local writers and activists pushing for a new national understanding of American cuisine.

When I asked Portland locals about notable food moments from recent years, many surprisingly mentioned Burritogate. This 2017 controversy involved two Portland women who traveled to Puerto Nuevo, a beach town near Tijuana famous for its Lobster Village, and became enamored with the handmade tortillas served there. Back in Portland, they started a weekend burrito pop-up called Kooks inside a taco truck, and told Willamette Week that, “[The women cooking] wouldn’t reveal much about their techniques, but we were fascinated by how effortlessly they seemed to prepare them.”

In essence, two non-Mexican women presented their restaurant as inspired by a brief visit to a tourist area of another country, attempting to learn culinary techniques without much regard for permission or proper authorization. They received local press coverage for their impressive tortillas. This situation highlights broader issues with white chefs using cultural and financial capital to cook foods from cultures outside their own. Yet, it is rare for these chefs to so explicitly detail where their inspiration came from and where their efforts fell short.

The story quickly faced backlash online, with many outlets highlighting it as a case of Portland’s unchecked whiteness or its overzealous wokeness, leading to the Kooks owners shutting down amid alleged death threats. M.L. Moreno in Bitch discussed the stark contrast between how authentic Mexican food by Mexican chefs is often overlooked in the U.S. compared to how ventures like Kooks are celebrated. Meanwhile, Gustavo Arellano wrote in OC Weekly that while the outrage over cultural appropriation was intense, Mexicans themselves often engage in intra-cultural appropriation, though he criticized the Kooks owners for their decision to close. He remarked, “The gabachas knew exactly what they were doing, so [why] didn’t they stand by it? Real gumption there, pendejas.”

From an external perspective, the story seemed so convoluted that it was hard to understand, but within Portland, it was a crucial part of a larger, overdue discussion about who benefits from the city's food scene and who gets left out. Both Willamette Week and the Oregonian held chef roundtables on the issue, providing a rare, in-depth conversation about race within Portland's restaurant industry. Although the initial online uproar was exaggerated by virality, it triggered a more thoughtful examination of these issues in the city.

Even before Burritogate, discussions about food and race in Portland were already underway on the podcast Racist Sandwich, co-founded by Soleil Ho and Zahir Janmohamed. Initially, the podcast spotlighted Portland’s chefs and food professionals of color, quickly gaining national attention. Janmohamed, who lived in Portland between 2015 and 2017, mentioned that the podcast aimed to highlight overlooked racial tensions in the city. He observed that while Portland, a predominantly white city, showed a strong interest in diverse cuisines, it often failed to extend the same welcome to the people behind those foods. “There was a genuine enthusiasm for Japanese and Mexican cuisines, but less so for Mexican residents,” Janmohamed noted. “Somalis struggled with housing issues, yet a Somali pop-up dinner would sell out instantly — which was quite intriguing.”

The podcast emerged after Janmohamed and Ho met in a group supporting Portland’s creatives of color. This group was established to assist individuals who came to Portland expecting its renowned cultural vibrancy but found themselves feeling alienated instead.

Ho, now a restaurant critic for the San Francisco Chronicle, lived in Portland in 2015 and 2016 with high hopes. “I thought people had the freedom to pursue their passions,” she reflected. However, her kitchen experiences exposed her to a complex hierarchy and a boys' club dynamic. Despite the city's diverse food offerings, the restaurant scene was notably homogeneous, pushing innovative voices to the margins.

Racist Sandwich addressed the gaps in Portland’s narrative by featuring early guests like Bertony Faustin, the region's first black winemaker, Han Ly Hwang from the food truck Kim Jong Grillin’, and Abel Hernandez and Jaime Soltero Jr. from Tamale Boy. The podcast’s popularity grew as it tackled critical questions about inclusivity in the American food scene, emphasizing how to build a new home without displacing others. “It’s a major contemporary issue: How do you develop a new community without pushing others out?” Ho asks. “And can this be resolved through individual actions alone?”

Celeste Noche, a Portland resident who moved there in 2014 and who founded the photo series Portland in Color, thinks about the problems of who is and isn’t included in the story of Portland partly in aesthetic terms. She says the rustic, beautiful design Portland is known for also has the effect of keeping visitors away from the less tricked-out dining rooms across town. “People who have social media followings don’t want to go to more mom-and-pop [places].”

Portland locals are designing better and more equitable ways forward as the city tries to weather the dual, entwined challenges of rising real estate values and shakier restaurant fortunes. The boldest and most comprehensive vision is championed by Rukaiyah Adams, the chief investment officer of the Meyer Memorial Trust and a fourth-generation black Portlander. She’s the chair of the Albina Vision Trust, a group that has put forward an ambitious proposal for redeveloping the Rose Quarter, a historically black neighborhood wiped out by urban renewal. The trust seeks to create a community that is accessible to people of all income levels, down to the businesses that would exist there. “We want affordable living,” Adams told the Portland Business Review, “and by affordable we mean not just a few mandated units of housing in a community where people who live in those units can’t afford to eat or get their hair cut in their own neighborhood.” A Portland Monthly feature on the predevelopment process notes that, “When a sketch of a riverside beer garden seemed too hipster, the rendering became a teeming family-friendly park under a bosk of trees.”

The Portland Mercado is another business fighting back against the forces of displacement. It was created by community members and stakeholders to serve as a hub for Latino culture in the city. With ample shade for outdoor dining, carts serving regional cuisines from Puerto Rico, Colombia, Venezuela, and more park outside the market. At Tierra del Sol, a Oaxacan food truck located at the Mercado, an artisanal approach is evident even in a seemingly simple dish like a tetela, a folded masa pocket stuffed with beans. Owner Amalia Sierra makes the blue corn masa and tortillas from a family recipe, and the beans are cooked from scratch to a thick, pleasingly spicy paste. Sierra’s moles and tlayudas are renowned in Portland, all of them cooked with decades of experience and practice, as she told Cristina Baez for Dinogo PDX.

Ho, Janmohamed, and Noche all agree that supporting restaurants and businesses owned by people of color in Portland is vital. Racist Sandwich’s map of POC-owned restaurants and food businesses is robust and compelling — an entirely different view of essential dining in the city. Danny Chau’s James Beard Award-nominated food diary in the Ringer does similar work for a national audience. And an awareness of the city’s ugly history around race will not, on its own, repair the harm: In 2016, some black community leaders expressed concern that all this obsession over gentrification was erasing the black businesses that were still there.

Janmohamed, who is currently a fiction MFA student at the University of Michigan, says Racist Sandwich could only have happened in Portland, fueled by the city’s DIY culture. “In writing, you talk about negative capability. You can love and hate a thing at the same time,” he says. “I love Portland. I wish there were more structural changes to help people of color, not just attitude shifts. I can’t wait to see what Portland is like in 20 years.”

Envisioning the future of Portland might lead you to Stoopid Burger, a celebrated food truck turned brick-and-mortar gem and one of the city's leading black-owned Mytouries. Founders John Hunt and Danny Moore, both Portland locals, began with a food cart that earned the Oregonian's people's choice award for best burger. Moore, who started working in restaurants at just nine years old at Nelson’s Barbecue, later balanced culinary school with local kitchens. His plan to launch a food truck with Hunt emerged from a stint at Buffalo Wild Wings. “We’re the Voodoo Doughnut of burgers,” Moore quips, drawing a parallel to the iconic doughnut shop turned national chain.

The signature Stoopid Burger, laden with ham, bacon, a hot link, egg, and cheese, pays homage to Portland’s classic burger scene. Moore reminisces about the burger’s roots, which once graced local favorites like Cleo’s and Mr. Burger, now vanished. “Preserving that legacy means a lot,” Moore explains. “Being Portland natives with our families also from here, our role in the community is crucial, especially since there aren't many prominent black-owned Mytouries. It’s important for younger generations to see that success isn’t limited to white-owned businesses.”

On a sunny weekday lunch, the restaurant’s open facade welcomed the pleasant weather, overlooking a chic restaurant block with a shared patio. Each burger aims to surpass the last — the Ignorant Burger, a social media sensation, stacks three layers of meat, including steak. For a simpler choice, there’s the Boring Burger. I opted for the Wicked Burger, topped with bacon, cheese, pickles, pineapple habanero salsa, and peanut butter. Like Le Pigeon’s lobster fried chicken, it could have been just a gimmick, but instead, it was a brilliantly chaotic blend of tart pickles, crispy bacon, spicy chutney, and sweet peanut butter that compelled another bite.

Portland’s culinary scene thrives on its bold, perfectionist approach. At Hat Yai, Ninsom’s southern-Thai restaurant, fried chicken is served with curry and roti, its spiced crust crisping over deeply seasoned meat. Yonder, chef Maya Lovelace’s counter-service tribute to North Carolina, demands indulgence with its spicy, tender fried catfish. Naomi Pomeroy’s Beast offers a nostalgic Tuesday night four-course menu with seasonal pastas and hunter’s chicken made with preserved summer tomatoes. At Erizo, Dinogo Young Gun Jacob Harth’s 19-course tasting ends with a grand halibut collar and Parker House rolls. While debating the honesty of these meals might be pointless, their quality is undeniable.

Regarding the Wendell Berry quote featured on the Ned Ludd menu: Underneath the chicken depicted on an axe, it states, “A key aspect of enjoying a meal is having a true awareness of the lives and the world from which the food originates.” A decade ago, this meant knowing details like the chicken’s name and the chef’s nickname for his mushroom supplier. Today, dining culture is evolving towards a more comprehensive understanding: recognizing not just the farm workers and bussers, but also the community that has supported the restaurant for years — understanding who is present and who is not in the dining experience. We now possess a clearer awareness. It’s time to heed craft culture’s best advice: disconnect from the virtual and appreciate the authentic.

Meghan McCarron is Dinogo’s special correspondent.Edited by Erin DeJesus