St. Jack

Portland, Oregon - 8:54 am - Monday. February 27, 2012.

As I nervously paced back and forth down SE 21st between Division and Clinton, anxiously checking my phone every two minutes to see if time had reached the 9 am unlocking of St. Jack, I began to wonder if one of the stars of South East Portland's hipster resurgence, St. Jack's Patisserie, was paying tribute to the crackheads and car boosters who roamed these very streets less than two decades ago by slowly unveiling their fresh-baked caneles and pan du chocolat behind a firmly locked door, causing my head to bubble with thoughts of kicking in that door and screaming, in my most crack-addled voice, "BITCH I NEED THAT CROISSANT!"




Fortunately for the structural integrity of St. Jack's entrance and for the spotlessness of my arrest record, I was dissuaded from such crack-powered antics by The People's Co-op down the street, where I was able to peruse aisles of bran extracts and page through Knitting Unlimited until the clock struck nine. With my thoughts powered by the impatient tapping of my foot, I couldn't help but notice the apparently hungry people walking by St. Jack just minutes before it opened, and thought it odd that a spot with such delectable breakfast treats couldn't be bothered to open at eight. I mean, come on. People have places to be by nine!

Obviously I don't, but I imagine there are some who do.

Once inside the warm confines of St. Jack's Patisserie, the issue of timely openings fades to distant memory and the issue of how an entire Parisian cafe has been transplanted across an ocean and placed across the street from a restaurant called Hammy's Pizza takes precedence. There's nothing too out-of-the-ordinary about Jack's selection. It's standard bakery stuff. Croissants, baguettes and madeleines all make appearances, and all are recommended.

Don't get the almond croissant though. Because if I get they're all gone by the time I get their, I'm liable to revert to crackfiend-mode.

But food, as tasty as it may be, is not what St. Jack is about. It's about preserving a little slice of Paris around the block from a New Seasons, an effort in which it whole-heartedly succeeds. My almond croissant may have been good had I gotten it American-style (which is to say, thrown in a tiny paper bag and forced down my gullet as I sprint to avoid being late for work), but I can't deny that it was made infinitely better by the beams of sunlight on the tiled floor and the strains of Parisian hip hop in the background.

If you're looking for a spot that fits your timetable, look elsewhere; but the next time you can't see the brake pedal in your car underneath the discarded Starbucks cups as you feverishly rush after the American dream, think about the marginally employed people on their way to a delicious baguette with butter and apple cinnamon jam at St. Jack.






















8.5/10