Restaurant Review: EEM

When locals call a place an institution, it usually means one of two things: either it’s the best of four options in a town where “dining out” usually means frozen mozzarella sticks and a ranch fountain… or it’s the real deal. The kind of place where excellence isn’t a surprise—it’s just the custom.

Now, the word institution itself means “an established law, practice, or custom.” Strip that down, read between the lines, and what you’re really talking about is consistency. Expectations. You expect the food to be good, the drinks to be better, the service to feel like you matter, and the room to buzz with a kind of charm that makes going home seem like the worse option. So when I heard whispers that Eem—tucked away in Portland’s Eastside Boise neighborhood—was a modern Thai institution, I rolled the dice. And I’m damn glad I did.

Irony is a funny thing. This post is part of a so-called neighborhood guide, and yet there I was, being welcomed into the neighborhood like a long-lost cousin who just showed up at the cookout.

Now, normally I’d launch into a rambling monologue about the food—half sentences, full emotions, lots of swearing—but this time, I’m going to keep it chronological. Because if this review gets you through the door (and I’d be flattered if it does), then this is likely how it’ll go down for you, too. The second we walked in, my girlfriend and I were greeted—genuinely greeted—by a maître d’ who actually gave a damn. Cups and water already waiting at the table like it was set for us before we even knew we were coming. I scanned the room. Serious food being served by unserious people. Playful, a little chaotic, but sharp as hell. I was in.

Our waitress, first question out of her mouth: “Any allergies?” That’s not small talk, that’s someone watching out for you. My girlfriend’s got a minefield of them, and the way the staff walked us through the menu—with patience and clarity—wasn’t performative. It was professional. And kind. We ordered drinks. Thai tea with oat milk—normally I’d just do the typical whole milk, but vegan was the standard here. And it worked. Mug shaped like a damn tropical fish. Somehow, not kitschy. Just fun. And that tea? Best I’ve ever had. Not even close.

Food came quick. Pulled pork green curry for me, brisket fried rice for her. The smell hit the table before the plates did, and I swear it could’ve ended right there. You could box up that scent and sell it by the gram.

Now let me be clear: this isn’t traditional. Not by a long shot. It’s smoked meat, Texas barbecue by way of Bangkok, high-octane flavors in a tight Portland package. It’s fusion, yes, but not the kind that gets watered down. It’s loud. It’s seductive. Braised pork collapsing into green curry so rich and oily it could star in its own 70s stag film. The fried rice? Balanced, smoky, and completely unforgiving in the best way. Every bite was proof these people knew exactly what they were doing.

Finished the meal with their POG sherbet—tangy, tropical, perfect. Like a cold slap after a warm bath.

So back to the question—what kind of institution is Eem? Category one: best of a mediocre bunch? Or category two: the real thing? Without a doubt, it’s the latter. No sign shouting “authentic.” No posturing. Just a team of people doing the work, night after night, until it becomes the law of the land.

Thank you to everyone at Eem who made lunch feel like a homecoming. And to the reader—don’t think of this as me guiding you through a neighborhood. Think of this as them welcoming us.

Writing and Photos by Avery Hadley