The Impulsive Traveler: The many flavors of Portland, Maine

Inside its storefront in the warehouse district a few minutes from downtown, the fermentory’s founder, Eli Cayer, poured us tastes before showing us around the place, including the garden out back where he’s growing some of the herbs that flavor the beverages. All the sips were delicious, but the one that made us burst into a chorus of “mmms” was a dry-hopped cider, complex and floral from the time the juice spent in a tank with hops. When we tasted the kombucha — ginger first, then blueberry — I asked Cayer how he walks the line between letting this wild-fermented product do its thing and controlling it for consistency’s sake. “It’s always changing,” he said, so timing is key: He supervises the “booch” as it ferments and gets flavored and bottled, all at room temperature. Once it’s transported to markets, it goes into refrigerators, and that’s when it stops changing.

Suddenly, as the sun streamed through the windows, we found ourselves longing to get outside on this unusually warm fall day, and more specifically to get out onto the water. The shortest cruise around Casco Bay’s islands, though, is 75 minutes, which would have cut into our precious eating time. Then Necee suggested that we take a ferry to and from Peaks Island — the most populous in the bay — without getting off. Smart woman. At 45 minutes, it was just enough time to pass some sailboats, see the trees turning colors, feel the wind on our faces, see a gorgeous silhouette of Portland in the late-afternoon sun. And we never got that how-much-longer-is-this-boat-ride feeling.

Two pastries, one nap and some lolling-about-the-hotel-room later, we found ourselves having pre-dinner and wine at one of Portland’s most popular new restaurants. The owners of Hugo’s, an 11-year-old fine-dining institution in town, opened Eventide earlier this year in a slip of a space next door. The place’s mission is oysters, so we ordered a dozen, split between those from Maine and those “from away,” a winking use of a localism. We immediately took to evaluating the differences — East Coast briny vs. West Coast creamy — and agreed, Massachusetts loyalists that we are, that nothing beats a Wellfleet. Before any Mainers react in horror: The Pemaquids, harvested just a couple of hours away, were a pretty close second.

We didn’t linger too long over our oysters, because our day was culminating in a meal at Bresca, just down the street in the Old Port neighborhood. In this intimate (18-seat) setting, open since 2007, chef-owner Krista Kern Desjarlais creates an ever-changing menu of small plates that reflect the seasons. That might not be so unusual anymore, but one bite of her crazy-rich spaghetti with pumpkins, walnuts and Gorgonzola cheese, and I was reminded of Manhattan’s Prune restaurant and Gabrielle Hamilton’s focused, rustic cooking. By the time we got to dessert, and I refused to share the buttermilk panna cotta, I’d started thinking that it might be even better. It must have been the wine, because how could that really be true?

Maybe there’s something in the sea air that gets to you, that fills you with Maine pride. I’ve heard more than one Mainer say with confidence that Portland’s food scene is better than Boston’s, for instance, and I’ve always (politely) scoffed. But I’ve been in the state for the better part of a year, and I’m starting to see their point. If nothing else, I think of it this way: If little Portland were plunked down in the middle of Boston, it would be a food lover’s destination. And I’d head there for dinner — or lunch, or pre-dinner oysters, or mid-morning pastries, or a macchiato — anytime.

Details, Portland, Maine

Yonan, a Post editor, is on book leave. He can be reached through his Web site, www.joeyonan.com.