Kachka

A friend who knows Portland better than I do put Kachka at the top of a list of three. He was right, as he often is.

The room is exactly what you want it to be: cozy Eastside, infused vodkas on every table. We were seated near the back, given menus we hardly needed, and brought a small bowl of olives without being asked.

We started with Caesar salad assembled tableside, which set the tone — generous, unfussy, and confident enough not to crowd what was coming. With it we ordered a quiet Brunello from the back of the list, and were glad of both.

Then the main event: beef tongue and short rib, the dish that puts Kachka on every short list. It arrived faintly hissing on a heated plate, the kind of small detail that tells you the kitchen still cares about the last twenty seconds before service. The signature touch — Russian-Georgian beef preparations, all in one room — is not a gimmick; it is the reason to come.

For sides we asked for grilled radicchio with anchovy butter and fried okra and a dab of remoulade. Both arrived hot, both arrived early, both were exactly large enough to overdo it. We overdid it.

Dessert was crème brûlée with a proper glass crust, mostly because the waiter raised an eyebrow when we hesitated. He was right to.

Some places earn their reputation. Kachka earns it twice over.