A Ledgered Meal: Paqui, Portland

We’ve lived in the neighborhood nearly a decade and have seen this corner go through many identities—brewpubs, fusion experiments—but Paqui feels like a genuine arrival. It’s not trying to dazzle with reinvention or nostalgia. Instead, it offers something more rare: memory rendered with clarity and care.

Our dinner was one of those meals that invites you to slow down. It began with a shrimp cocktail that had the bright, bracing zing of a Bloody Mary crossed with gazpacho—cool, spicy, and alive. The pulled pork tacos were unhurried in both texture and taste, subtly inviting a kind of paced appreciation rather than instant gratification. Roasted cauliflower with chimichurri delivered a perfect balance—earthy, vibrant, and quietly confident. And even the chips and salsa—humble staples—spoke of house-made intention. Crisp, warm, just right.

Drinks were equally thoughtful: a crisp pale ale and a margarita that knew exactly what it was doing—bright citrus, coarse salt, no slush, no syrup. The happy hour menu made it feel indulgent without excess.

What sealed it for us? They serve breakfast. Next time the calendar gifts me a morning without a 9am meeting, I’ll be back for huevos rancheros—because any place that honors memory in the evening probably knows what it’s doing with eggs at dawn.

Paqui isn’t just a great new restaurant—it’s a conversation with flavor, lineage, and what it means to belong in a place. So grateful to have them in the neighborhood.