Back to Brunch: A Visit to Screen Door
Brunch is something I’ve always loved—something famously, most chefs do not. I’m not a chef, so maybe I don’t get it. But I’ve worked next to enough of them to know that brunch is often treated like culinary purgatory. A punishment for whoever screwed up on the line the night before. And maybe that’s fair—early hours, relentless volume, and all the yolky expectations that come with a crowd that’s just barely awake. But what about the places that lean all the way in? The restaurants that make brunch their only game? Not quite breakfast, not quite lunch—somewhere in the middle where you don’t have to commit to dinner service, but you’re still expected to deliver something memorable.
That question took me to Screen Door, a Portland staple recommended by Janae Yamamoto—owner of Odd Bird Café in Corvallis, a client and a dear friend. To be clear, Screen Door isn’t a client. This isn’t a marketing piece. This is a peer review—purely based on the plate in front of me.
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Janae told me the first time I go, I have to order the chicken and waffles. No debate. And I’m not one to ignore a strong recommendation. I picked a Tuesday—because weekends at Screen Door are chaos. Unless you’re into hour-long waits and small talk in parking lots, go on a weekday. I walked in and was seated right away. The host was kind, gracious, quick with the menu and the classic “can I start you with a drink?” Orange juice. Fresh-squeezed. Not one of those insultingly tiny, overpriced glasses either—a tall glass. Cold. Sharp. Bright. The kind of OJ that makes you reconsider what you’ve been drinking the rest of your life. The server came back. I ordered the chicken and waffles. He nodded—“Good choice.” And maybe that’s what they’re trained to say, but you can tell when it’s real. I love that moment, especially when you’re with friends and everyone gets a “great choice” but one person doesn’t. It’s subtle, maybe accidental. Or maybe not. Either way, it always makes me smile.The food came out fast, steaming on a heated plate. One big waffle, cut into four quarters. A generous pile of golden fried chicken—craggy, crisp, seasoned with confidence. A side of real maple syrup (Canadian, I assume—and trust), powdered sugar falling across the dish like fresh snow on Mount Hood, and a single orange wedge, because someone in the kitchen still believes in presentation. I’ve never been a chicken and waffles person. It always felt like too much bread. Too heavy. Too blunt. But this—this was balance. The chicken was moist, perfectly cooked, audibly crispy. The waffle was light and airy, not something to trudge through, but something that lifted the dish.
It worked. It really worked.
It reminded me that when a kitchen cares—when they treat the dish like a conversation instead of a checklist—you can taste it. And that’s what keeps people coming back. That’s why I’ll be back too.
Photos and Writing by Avery Hadley
