Seventeen months is a very long time. Seventeen months is how long it had been since Corey and I had enjoyed an entire night away from B. Seventeen months is also our son’s age. Ergo, this was our first full night away from the monster, compliments of Nana.

It’s funny how driving the 110 miles to our city to the north, that familiar friend that is Portland, felt more like a vacation than the two-week odyssey that was our June trip to exotic Mexico. Perhaps it’s not very Good Mommy of me, but I relished the entire 36 hours. I only looked in the back seat once for B. I didn’t worry about nap times or feeding schedules or whether or not the sun was in B’s eyes. I didn’t have to care, so I didn’t. Instead I held hands with Corey as we meandered through the sculpture garden outside the Portland Art Museum. Our walk took us through a local farmer’s market teeming with action as crates of Gerber daisies were loaded onto trucks and booths disassembled. But no matter, we were on a mission: The Church of Emily, otherwise known as Nordstroms, beckoned us to her hallowed halls of worship. As usual, she didn’t disappoint: I walked out with a brand new pair of Frye boots, nearly half off, and absolutely gorgeous. Next stop was the Hotel deLuxe Portland’s newest hotel (and what replaced our old fav, the dearly departed Mallory Hotel). If we couldn’t afford the pricey rooms, we could at least enjoy the beautiful lobby, where marble meets 50’s modern retro style and glamorous film icons from the same era light up photographs and floor to ceiling movie screens. Portland is suddenly posh . . . We relaxed our tired feet in The Driftwood Room and sipped $11 pear brandy sidecars. I obsessed on the furniture—the well cushioned seats were the most comfortable bar stools I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. Meanwhile, as I stared up at the original wood panel ceiling and the strange river rock arrangement going on in the main room, Corey wondered aloud why it was that all the bartenders were both women and black haired. And then too soon our drinks were empty and even the sugar rims licked clean. The friendly doorman asked us if we would be needing a cab and declining, we headed south toward Powell’s Bookstore. If you don’t know about Powell’s, you obviously don’t live in Oregon. Here’s the link. I wouldn’t do it justice anyway. Powell’s is fabulous, wonderful and overwhelming. Unfortunately, Powell’s has heavy fluorescent lighting and I am allergic to fluorescent lights. I scoured the magazines, checked out the staff recommended picks and tried to find books on advice columns and/or biographies about the classic advice columnist sisters, Ann Landers and Abbey from Dear Abbey. Unfortunately the woman at the information desk was stumped. In the end, she directed me to the Orange Room, which housed etiquette books by Miss Manners and Emily Post, not at all the direction I had hoped for. Happily, along the way I spotted Comfort Me with Apples, Ruth Reichl’s foody memoir (thoughts on this bestseller soon to come).

Oh food, glorious food.

Which leads me to the main event, the climax, if you will, of our little trip to Portland: A dinner at Genoa Restaurant. I had never heard of Genoa restaurant, but given it’s pedigree (“legendary” the website boasts, and “35 years in the making” according to our waiter) Genoa is a Portland institution. But you wouldn’t know it from the curb—Genoa is found on a forgettable block of Belmont and hidden discreetly by dark fabric and a nondescript door. With it’s billowy red curtains, I felt as though I were entering a very old magic store or prohibition-era speakeasy. Genoa is a small restaurant (I’m sure they would prefer I say “intimate” and it is that as well, but small was my first instinct when we stepped across the threshold). There is no place to stand unobtrusively as you wait to be seated, so within seconds of entering I started to feel as though Corey and I were the surprise guests that had crashed the party. Luckily, we didn’t have to stand there looking silly for too long. Quickly we were ushered across the restaurant, through a hallway and into the lounge, where we had the well appointed room all to ourselves. After depositing us in our chairs the waiter posed a surprising question: Were either of us allergic to shellfish? As fate would have it, shellfish is the one food I am allergic to. Bravo Genoa, crisis averted. Our waiter recited a list of “complimentary aperitifs” and I chose the bellini with peach puree. Corey opted for a concoction with a strange name now forgotten. Mine was sweet and light and his tasted of port and sherry with a lingering bitter finish. We draped ourselves on the armchairs and perused the upscale magazines. I sipped twice from my drink before our waiter returned with a flourish. Standing at the front of the room he surveyed us and then announced,”Come. Come, Let’s go kids” and clapped his hands five times in rapid succession like he was calling his tiny toy poodle. I wanted to take the heel of my pretty black pump and ever so slowly grind it into his instep. Instead, I lingered in my chair a little longer than necessary and surveyed our waiter right back. He was sporting an ill-conceived Don Johnson haircut and I suspect he was faking his gayness. As he led us to our table, a momentary bout of dread passed through me. The meal was set to last far too long and with a price far too high to tolerate an asshole. The waitstaff at Genoa are highly trained professionals who can intuit their clients' every need or whim. Suddenly, Don Johnson disappeared from view and was replaced by a very cute younger man who introduced himself as our waiter. As Waiter2.0 popped back into the kitchen, I turned to Corey and whispered, “Oooh, I was hoping we would get the younger guy. He’s not bitter yet.” Andi (I have no idea how he spells his name but I’m guessing with an “i”) was adorable and nice and gentlemanlike. So much so that when I , on my 5th glass of wine and having observed the loud party table in the corner said, “I bet it’s really fun to watch the wealthy get bombed and make fools of themselves,” Andi said, sans arched eyebrow, “Our diners get drunk? I’ve never noticed.” Oh Andi, you are so very classy. I very much enjoyed you and judging by the extra dessert you presented us and the wine that consistently found its way into my wineglass, I believe you may have liked us too.

But I digress . . . As I mentioned earlier, Genoa’s atmosphere was small and intimate, befitting an eatery listed on more than one website as one of Portland’s top ten most romantic restaurants. The color pallette was maroon and candlight. The rug was patterned and looked expensive, like something you’d see in an old Italian hotel and the light fixtures were art deco and probably purchased from the wonderful Rejuvenation Hardware. We were nearly the youngest in the room, with the exception of another couple across the way, who looked slightly uncomfortable, as though they were on a first date and overwhelmed by the opulence. Corey and I held hands and breathed in the scene. To my immediate right sat two couples obviously on a double date. One of the women talked loudly about her work on movie sets and publicity and appeared to be annoying everyone at her table. I found her outfit more appalling than her personality. She wore a slinky red dress with . . . clogs, a distinctly Oregon fashion statement that must be best done away with. Now.

Our meal was old world Italian, prix fixe and consisted of SEVEN courses. My water glass was always full (I drink three times the water most people drink so I often use my water glass as a barometer of service). There were no menus. Menus, apparently, are tacky. Some of the course descriptions might have required Cliff notes, but Andi recited them flawlessly. In addition, my darling husband insisted we go all in with the course-by-course wine pairings. Much of what I’ve written below is taken directly from Genoa’s parchment papered souvenir menu.

Antipasto: Corey had the frutti di mare medley with fresh calamari, Puget Sound mussels and East Coast scallops marinated in extra-virgin olive oil, garlic, red onion and summer herbs. The medley was served on a bed of “skordalia”—a Greek potato-garlic bread sauce—along with housemade ciabatta bruschetta topped with Flamingo Ridge Red Star tomatoes drizzled with light lemon anchovy bagna cauda. I have no idea what bagna cauda is and my guess is you don’t either, so we’ll leave it at that. As for my dish, it was much simpler but no less fabulous. I believe I too was introduced to the wonders of the “skordalia” atop the housemade ciabatta. But where Corey tasted that scary little shellfish, my palette was treated to something I normally don’t dare eat: Duck. I like ducks, I like to feed them bread at the pond, I think they’re cute and the sounds they make are perfect for my little seventeen-month-old imitator. But the smell of cooked duck has never turned me on so I’ve simply avoided the taste. Genoa changed my mind—duck is delicious. Duck proscuitto, with it’s non-gamey flavor and delicate crunch, is amazing.

Next up

Soup course, Zuppa di Zucca Gialli: Yellow summer crooked neck squash makes for a yummy soup when you throw in shallots, garlic, dry Marsala and cream. Bonus: We got to eat yellow-petaled blossoms—so soft and delicious.

Pasta course, Lasagna verde con pomodoro e basilico: This lasagna was so light and flavorful. I could taste the spinach, the parsley, the fresh basil garlic, those ripe bullet tomatoes and the proscuitto di parma. What a treat! This was the course in which I noticed my alcohol intake—I was feeling giddy and fast approaching “drunk.”

Salad course, Carpaccio di melone: It wasn’t the three types of melon or the tender local greens or the cucumber or the tiny Marcona almonds that sold me on this incredible salad. It was the dressing. I am a slave to vinaigrette and this vinaigrette may be the best I’ve ever sampled. Imagine citrus, mint and shallots blended together in a potpourri of delicate vinegar tang. Truly splendid! Who knew salad could be this good?

It was during the salad course that Corey and I agreed that a short break was in order and that someone ought to check on the bambino. While he retired to the lounge to call Nana, I tried not to look bored and busied myself by eavesdropping on the four men sitting at the table next to us. Unfortunately they were discussing the internet and not very well. Andi swung by to keep me company and said, “Is everything alright? Is everything to your liking?” to which I replied “Oh yes, thank you.”
But then Andi frowned (I made Andi frown. I didn’t want to make Andi frown). “But your wine. No good? You’ve slowed down.”
“No, it’s delicious. I slowed down because I’m afraid I’m drunk.” Without missing a beat, Andi said,
“No, no, you’re not drunk. You’ve just caught a buzz. And do you know what you do when you catch a buzz?” He said this as though he were a benevolent school teacher and I the eager pupil.
I looked up at Andi with mouth open and eyes glazed and shook my head no. Andi would provide the answer.
“You throw it back, you throw it back.”

I followed Andi’s advice, Corey arrived back in his chair safely with news of B going to bed an hour and a half late (tsk, tsk Nana) and soon we were presented with the big one.

Main course, bistecca for Corey, salmone for me.

Bistecca fiorentina: The beef hanger steak is “Montana Piemontese beef” produced to emulate the famous beef of Italy’s Piemonte region. The beef was marinated in Tuscan olive oil, garlic, thyme, bay and cracked black peppercorns, grilled and spread with a gremolota of shallots, parsley and cracked black pepper. Yukon gold potatoes were roasted and a perfect pairing to the meat. Corey loved the beef—he found the meat grilled to a rich rosy hue and the simple seasonings superb.

Salmone in agrodolce con panzanella: We Oregonians are surrounded by a lot of salmon and so we’re pretty particular. I had high hopes for this dish and Genoa did not disappoint. This salmon was Oregon troll-caught Chinook salmon coated with a marinade of lemon juice, Dijon mustard, ground fennel seed and sugar, then grilled until just carmelized. The salmon was served with a dallop of caper aoli (it didn’t need it, I brushed it to the side) and a panzanella of sweet Sungold cherry tomatoes, Walla Walla sweet onions and the snappiest most flavorful green beens I’ve ever tasted. The cherry tomato, Walla Walla onion, divine green bean mix was infused with yet another vinegary blend, this time gewurztraminer and basil. The fish was impeccably cooked and the light carmelization sealed in the juices for maximum flavor. And the cherry tomatoes—so many colors and the ripeness bursting between my teeth--reminded me of happy little suns. I’ve had only two truly remarkable salmon experiences in my life and this was one of them. The other was a tomato-laden salmon dish at the Mercer Hotel in Manhattan (home to Russell Crowe’s little phone throwing tantrum). I think Genoa wins—their salmon was larger, the tomatoes more plentiful and the wine pairing set off the fish brilliantly.

Dessert Course, dolci della casa: Andi brought out a tray covered in sweet delicacies. Corey was torn between the cheese plate and the fresh fruit tart. There was much hedging and indecision, as is Corey’s way. I sat back as long as I could and then interjected, “In the end, he’ll get the cheese plate. He always gets the cheese plate.” Andi, motivated by either generosity or exhaustion, moved things along by proclaiming that Corey deserved both and all was resolved. Corey loved his cheese plate (he had never heard of these uber gourmet cheeses) and I helped him finish the tart. Pears, apricots, bing cherries? Who knew what was in there, it was all so scrumptious. And the crust? Irresistible. My primary dessert choice was the ice cream/sorbet trio with the yellow and red currants. This dessert featured two types of sorbet—one a berry and liquor concoction and the other straight, sinful berries of a different type (I was quite tipsy at this point in the evening and failed to pay attention as Andi revealed the berry specifics). Nestled in between the two sorbets was a wonderful buttercream—simple, sweet and pure—it tasted just like my little boy smells when he’s fresh out of the bath. Sitting atop the rim of the glass were a handful of the daintiest currants I’ve ever seen. Nibbling this plump and juicy fruit was a complete delight, like savoring tiny little grapes, with just the right amount of sour. A perfect finish.

And yet, the meal was not over.

Fruit course, frutta di stagione: By the close of the meal, the chardonnay, the pinot gris, the Christom pinot noir, and the sweet Muscat dessert wine had taken their toll. I was very full, very tired and very tipsy. I don’t actually remember eating the fruit, but I do remember how it was presented. Fruit by fruit, Andi placed the pieces on each of our fine china plates with love and fanfare, “A nectarine for you, and a mini-plum for you. Oh, and some locally grown cherries too. And for you . . .” Honestly, I could have done without the fruit, but it was beautiful and erotic, this I could sense even in my Italian dessert wine haze.

We closed the place down. We said our thanks and goodbyes to Andi and stepped back out into the cool Portland air. My head was bubbly and my stomach, engorged. We walked the very quiet city block while I endeavored to compose myself. As we passed the closed up shops and empty coffeehouses, we recounted our luminous meal. My husband laughed when I tripped and held me steady and told me I was kind of sexy, “Like the drunk cheerleader at a frat party.” Later, back in our hotel room, I correctly used the word “defile.” Corey was impressed with my crazy vocab stylings, but mainly he just thought it was “hot.” (But really, how many people can use “defile” in a sentence when they’re smashed?) We’ve spent the last few days replaying that decadent meal and each and every dish, save the fruit, remains vibrantly clear in my mind. Was the perfectly cooked salmon, with its generous gathering of tomatoes, my favorite? Or the exquisite desserts? In the end, I can’t decide. We spent 3 and 1/2 unforgettable hours inside Genoa. Dinner, drinks and tip clocked in at $280 (thanks Nana!). Yes, it was the priciest meal I’ve ever had the great fortune to eat, but it may also have been the best. As Corey remarked in between the “Oo”s and “Ah”s of eating his steak: “If religion tasted this good, I’d gladly pay for it.”