the columbian cafe
portland’s best breakfast spot is 100 miles west of the river.
the columbian cafe is no secret to the rest of the world. reviews of the hidden treasure have graced the pages of the oregonian, the new york times—even life magazine.
but no instagram picture, no yelp review, no blog post raving about the experience can come close to giving you the gift that you receive by spending a morning at this charming little eatery in astoria, oregon. nevertheless, i hope you read on.
seated conservatively on the haunches of the historic columbian theatre and voodoo room, the cafe feels like an afterthought—a humble contrivance meant to fill the empty space between the theater and everything else. the facade is understated, unassuming, and not a single outdoor table occupies the storefront if the weather is foul, which it usually is.
my first visit is on a sunny sunday morning in early january. from the minute i step through the door, it’s unlike any experience i’ve had. the space is warm and buzzing with the chatter of contented diners. the chef lobs a casual “good morning” over his right shoulder as he preciously tends a menagerie of ingredients on the open griddle near the window. farm-fresh eggs. catch-of-the-day crab. from-scratch tortillas. a ladle of water here, a dollop of chèvre there, and it’s ready to plate.
the radio plays an anthology of 90s anthems, winding their way through my adolescence — michael jackson. aaliyah. tlc.
the small staff moves through the room in a carefully rehearsed dance. greeted by the chef, seated by the waiter, drinks from the busboy. it’s all one smooth synergistic performance. i admire the eclectic array of photos, license plates, and napkin art that covers the wood-paneled walls. beware of attack chef. hello from kauai!!! make breakfast, not war.
as the waiter returns with toast and house-made jam, he turns to me. “did i see you hiking saddle mountain yesterday?” he had. it’s nothing more than a charming coincidence, but one that confirms my mounting suspicion that my entire life has been leading up to this moment. sitting in this seat, salivating at the thought of my impending breakfast burrito. the ticket for which now hangs precariously over chef’s slouching white hat, at the end of a short line of breakfast prayers; offered up to the griddle gods by so many hungry patrons
i take notice of the cadence with which chef goes about his work. he completes a single dish, delivers it by hand, and returns to his post at the griddle. he wipes his brow with a forearm and wipes his hands with a towel. he gathers his tools and plucks the next gastronomic invocation from the rail overhead, and begins to create again. watching this i realize it will be quite some time before his hand reaches for my ticket. i’m already sure it will be worth the wait.
