Photo | Drew Lazor

In November of last year, Nick Norlen interviewed Anthony Bourdain in support of a reading appearance at the Free Library. The No Reservations star was his usual blustery self when questioned about the relevance of Philly as a great food city ("My first impression was that W.C. Fields was right — the place was fucking closed"). But one quote in particular jumped out and stuck with me — Bourdain's declaration that Portland, Oregon possessed "the greatest chef culture in the country."

Ever since then, Portland's been high on my list of culinary destinations. My girlfriend Michelle and I finally decided to take the PacWest plunge in late August, spending a week eating and drinking everything we could get our grimy East Coast paws on.

Is it really the greatest chef's city in the nation? I've never been one for blanket superlatives — but I strongly suggest you book some plane tickets right now.

Thoughts and pictures after the jump.

The first thing on our to-do list: drink beer. (Portlanders love to talk up the sheer volume of Oregon's brewpubs — one of the major advantages they have over Philly in the "Best American Beer City" battle.) We visited a handful of brewpubs — Deschutes had some lively beers, but so-so food, while Rogue's Public House was just as glorious as I envisioned it (actually a distillery, not a brewpub, but same idea) — and many beer-friendly bars (Scrabble and local IPAs at Bailey's Taproom, Sugar Mom's-esque charm at Ringler's Annex and Beulahland).

It's true that Portland does have way more brewpubs than Philly, but here's where we have the edge: Our bars actually adhere to big kid hours. We were amped to try Tugboat Brewing Co. one weeknight, only to be shocked — nay, offended — when we realized THEY CLOSED AT 10 P.M. You might have the best beers in the history of fermentation, but if you're going to hang it up before Leno comes on, what the hell is the point?

First real dinner: Tabla, which came recommended by Ben Waterhouse, food writer/editor at Willamette Week. (He and his editor, Kelly Clarke, sent us a huge list of suggestions before the trip. Thanks, guys!) Ben told me that the Medi bistro's truffle butter tajarin (available as part of the whatta-deal $24 three-course prix fixe) was his pick for best pasta in Portland. I can see why: The stuff was shockingly light, cooked to a grin-inducing al dente with just the right amount of coherent truffle flavor. Delicious. I ate and drank many things before and after this course, which is why I look like I want to die in the fifth picture of Set 2.

Next day, lunch: Ten 01, which we learned was owned by the same people as Tabla. We slurped up some great oysters from an inlet whose name I do not recall (forgetting details due to midday cocktails: recurring theme) and got down on a fruity Dungeness crab summer salad and tender Willapa Bay clams in a bold Italian chili broth. Mains saw sesame-crusted pork ribs (a steamed cloth napkin was provided in lieu of a moisty nap — class!) and a friendly squash and asparagus risotto.

One major area in which Portland absolutely positively DESTROYS US is street food. There are enclaves of eating in every direction. Whole city blocks dedicated to walk-up grub. None of this dirty-water stuff, either — Indian, Bosnian, German, Vietnamese, Middle Eastern, many many Mexican, veggie/vegan, sweets and desserts, a few cheesesteak stands (I stayed far away) and more Thai spots than you could shake a bundle of lemongrass at. Above, beginning with Set 5, is us jumping on a burrito al pastor, fish tacos, samosas, a red curry that burned my face clean off and a huge Medi platter. This was all dirt-cheap, too.

We were excited to see that the Rogue-sponsored Great American Distiller's Festival was being held downtown during our stay. Ten bucks a head got us in with a fistful of sampling tickets; we poked around a few different tables, taking nips of craft-distilled liquors from the around the country. Of course, we eventually ended up at the bar, where they were mixing cocktails that featured repped boozes. My fave was the Oregon Rain Drop, which featured pear brandy.

To kill some time between the Fest and our late dinner reservation, we dropped by Saucebox, a wicked little mod-Asian restaulounge with great sidewalk seating. I was surprised to learn that the place has been open for 13 years — it was definitely "with it," so to speak, without being too corny. I sipped on a mojito-esque thing called "The Best Drink," while the girl ordered up a "Poolside with David Hasselhoff," the most glorious cocktail name I've ever encountered. Squid skewers were awesome. (Michelle tells me her coworkers burst into hysterics when she told them that we'd eaten at a place called "Saucebox." OK yeah it's pretty funny.)

After that, we schlepped over to Northeast Portland for what was undoubtedly my favorite meal of the trip: the aforementioned 9:30 res at Le Pigeon. It was worlds apart from any dining experience I've had here in Philly. The place is tiny and warm; a brassy, open kitchen-driven space executed in the best way possible. They sat us across from each other at a long communal table next to an awesome foursome of locals who filled our heads and nerdy notepads with Portland must-eat tips. Our server, Erin, treated us like we were her long-lost college friends or something. Scary-great wine list, too.

The food: Most decadent (and still unpretentious) meal I've eaten in a long time. Started off with foie gras over baba cake with cherries. For my main, I asked for the beef cheeks, but instead received a gigantic hunk of pork that'd been cooked confit AND deep-fried. I was completely fine with this oversight. Michelle went a far more sensible route from a not-dying perspective with a lobster frisée salad and a beautiful piece of monkfish. Dessert: FOIE GRAS PROFITEROLES with caramel sauce and sea salt. Call up Set 9 in the Pictobrowser to see why Hugs for Puppies operatives are currently staked out in front of my apartment on a tandem fixie. This is officially my favorite restaurant in Portland.

I had a disappointing streak of random eating after this — allegedly famous breakfast/brunch spot Besaw's had a Sabrina's-like wait and non-Sabrina's-like food, Kenny & Zuke's good-but-not-great corned beef on rye made me long for the Famous — but I made it up for it by drinking beers at a hilariously snotty Stumptown Coffee outpost and eating an early dinner at Park Kitchen in the Pearl District. This is a gorgeous neighborhood restaurant with nice cocktails (we sampled many) and a fun small-plate/large-plate menu. We kept it light with an array of salads and such, our favorite being an admixture of crisp green beans, roasted peaches and shards of chewy hazelnut tuile.

Liquor, for some reason, makes us want dairy, so we made good on Michelle's quest for a brilliant cheese plate by dropping by the also-gorgeous Bluehour. We pulled up bar seats, sipped some wine and nibbled on a queso spread selected by their amazingly personable lady fromager. See Set 12, fifth pic: We were warned that the bleu cheese in the top left corner would "make our hair fall out." It was definitely a stinky delicious beast, but luckily all my follicles are still intact.

On our last night, we trekked to Andina, yet another beautiful space specializing in "novo" Peruvian cuisine. This meal was a winner from top to bottom, with cheery, knowledgeable service and a menu offering traditional plates in addition to three different sizes of tapas (genius!). We kicked things off with what might've been the best raw bar spread I've ever had (Set 13, pic six). This behemoth had it all — oysters, clams, mussels, jumbo prawns, scallop and octopus ceviches. It was the first time I actually felt a dent in my stomach from eating chilled seafood. Bravo, Andina! Next, I ordered up some chorizo and beef heart skewers, while Michelle opted for the Causa Mixta Nikkei, an addictive tower of citrus-y mashed potatoes topped with layers of crabmeat, spicy sushi-grade tuna and fried prawn. About to die again, but not before we tried a créme brulees trio for dessert. Vacation, right?

On the way back home, we had a two-hour layover in the Dallas/Fort Worth airport, where we scarfed terrifying nachos, slammed watery margaritas and sobbed quietly about the inedible slop in front of us.

In conclusion, go to Portland. You'll remember what you ate.