caiola’s

There is a restaurant in the West End of Portland that Sarah has been wanting to take me to for a while. In fact, she was convinced I’d want to move up here just so that I could work there, or even stand by the wall in the kitchen so that I could watch.
And she was right.
It must be the beach, or vacation head, but I am not having a Ruth moment tonight. I want to tell you how I felt about this meal at Caiola’s, but I’d rather you were just there. But I’ll see what kind of words I can muster.
There were drinks. Really good Drinks.

There was an abundant and outrageous antipasti plate. Look.

And the burger came with homemade tater tots.


Trout with creamed corn and swiss chard, and the corn was almost raw and barely cooked in something a little spicy, and it burst in the most beautiful way.

Happy girls in the garden.



It was Jefferson’s birthday, and he choose three desserts. Fig ricotta ice cream.

Plum crisp with maple whipped cream.

And the creamiest panna cotta I have ever witnessed. I think they must have snuck some mascarpone in there or something.

Someday I might need to grow into a woman who could start a place like this. In time, in time.


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