Food & Drink

The words “local” and “sustainable” have been on the tips of food-centric tongues lately. Restaurants tout their local meats and produce – some even grow organic vegetables in their own backyards. With the increased popularity of farmers markets and eating local foods, it seems the whole country is jumping on the local food movement bandwagon. Well, except for those who can't afford to join in.

The words “local” and “sustainable” have been on the tips of food-centric tongues lately. Restaurants tout their local meats and produce – some even grow organic vegetables in their own backyards. With the increased popularity of farmers markets and eating local foods, it seems the whole country is jumping on the local food movement bandwagon. Well, except for those who can't afford to join in.
Next week, farmers, non-profits, food-related organizations and anyone else who wants to join in the discussion will meet at Central Oregon Community College to figure out how to make local, sustainable, nutritious food accessible for everyone in Central Oregon. Led by Sydney Leonard, an Americorps VISTA volunteer working on behalf of Wy'East Resource Conservation, the Food Summit is a one-day meeting that's been in the making for over a year.

Before I lived in Bend, I was living in New York. The Big Apple gave me an appreciation for many things: street art, the perfect music venue (Bowery Ballroom, the Mercury Lounge), well-run subway systems. But perhaps most importantly, New York instilled in me a love of kosher delis. Not just the perfectly sliced, flavorful meats and cheeses and fresh-baked rye bread and onion rolls. Jewish delis have personality that can't be contained in their often small, nondescript digs. Walk one of these delis, and see if you don't hear at least one dude behind the counter shout “Hey there!” with a huge smile on his face while the patriarch mastermind whips up head-sized sandwiches behind the counter.
While Bend's dining scene is growing, there are a few big-city institutions we're still waiting for. A killer cheese shop. Vietnamese sandwiches. Ramen. And, until recently, a kosher deli. But not anymore. Let's all say Shalom to the Letzer family, who has brought a real live Jewish deli to Bend.

Before I lived in Bend, I was living in New York. The Big Apple gave me an appreciation for many things: street art, the perfect music venue (Bowery Ballroom, the Mercury Lounge), well-run subway systems. But perhaps most importantly, New York instilled in me a love of kosher delis. Not just the perfectly sliced, flavorful meats and cheeses and fresh-baked rye bread and onion rolls. Jewish delis have personality that can't be contained in their often small, nondescript digs. Walk one of these delis, and see if you don't hear at least one dude behind the counter shout “Hey there!” with a huge smile on his face while the patriarch mastermind whips up head-sized sandwiches behind the counter.

The menu this past Sunday at the Cascade Lakes Brewing Company Lodge was chicken and rice kibble and a canned chicken mixture, topped with a sprig of parsley. Desert was a bone-shaped biscuit dipped in a carob coating. Some diners ate from the table, while others were content to eat from the floor. Most everyone was done within a matter of seconds, returning to their previous socialization practice of sniffing their neighbors' butts.
This was all part of Bend Spay and Neuter Project's first Dine with Your Dog event, inspired by a popular fundraising effort by the same name in Seattle. Tickets were $10 per dog and included the aforementioned two-course meal while human companions ordered from Cascade Lakes' regular menu. More than 30 tickets were sold, raising $500 for Bend Spay and Neuter Project.

Bend seems to have a connection with Hawaii. More than a few people I know have traded their surfboards and suntans for snowboards and four seasons (theoretically).

The menu this past Sunday at the Cascade Lakes Brewing Company Lodge was chicken and rice kibble and a canned chicken mixture, topped with a sprig of parsley. Desert was a bone-shaped biscuit dipped in a carob coating. Some diners ate from the table, while others were content to eat from the floor. Most everyone was done within a matter of seconds, returning to their previous socialization practice of sniffing their neighbors' butts.