Restaurant Review: Bauman’s on Oak Isn’t Your Average Taphouse

There’s something in the water. This is where every conversation I’ve had about the mystical power of New York pizza ends. And figuratively, sure: water, air, ambient coastal elite energy, plain old aura—every pizza I’ve had in New York was great because it captured something of that city’s spirit. I’m less convinced that Manhattan water is somehow superlative, the usual point of pride for place-specific ingredients. But I’ll concede that things taste better when they belong somewhere.

Bauman’s on Oak, the Gervais cider company’s new taproom, with a food menu that outpaces your average farm-focused restaurant, only serves pizza one day per month. It’s whimsically ballooned and flame-kissed in a backyard wood oven, and it’s on par with any za in the city—especially the pie with Dungeness crab and stracciatella cheese. I don’t think it’s because of the Oregon water (though more on water in a bit). Nor is it because of the local grains in the crust, the house-made cheese, or the plump and briny Oregon coast crab. This all helps, but it’s great because it’s in conversation with, and a product of, the larger local food system. Since they only have to pull it off once per month, the pizza is the most exalted version of Bauman’s vision, but its ideas are echoed throughout the regular menu, which captures something of this city’s spirit, an impressive feat considering it only opened in April.

So this place is an overearnest, back-to-the-land utopia? Nah, they serve Ruffles too. And you’d have to ask an employee to even hear about any of this locavore porn. Speaking of which, I’ll stop pointing out what’s made in-house, because everything is.

Christine Walter, Bauman’s owner and cider maker, opened the taproom in the same building as her new production site when expanding her cidery into the city. She’d outgrown her family’s century-old farm and orchard, where she started the company in 2015. Cider remains something of a niche beverage in the US. Which is why you might be surprised to learn Bauman’s is one of the most respected cider producers in the world—literally, it won a gold medal at the International Brewing and Cider Awards in England this past May. Another international cider jury gives out hefty wooden bowls as awards; you’ll see several of them hanging out among the plants in the dining room here.

Past the forklifts in the entryway, the restaurant space is open and lofty, like a made-over farmhouse, with a warm jade-green color scheme and a surplus of exposed wood. It’s big enough to host a party but stylish enough for a casual date. And don’t expect the standard taphouse burgers and chicken fingers. Instead, the food is snacky, thoughtful, and ever-changing. Entrees come and go almost daily, like a gloriously stacked BLT, or piece of salmon over chanterelle rice, or pork ribs sticky with loganberry cider syrup. But the simplest dishes are the stars. I’ve never heard so much chatter about a bread and butter serving.

For most, bread is something to chew on while waiting for the actual food. At Bauman’s, it functions as a sort of mission statement. Take the craggy sourdough boule, a version of which chef Daniel Green has been baking since he came to town in 2018, first when setting up the bread program at Ava Gene’s, then when he left to start Café Olli’s. It’s both airy and spongy, crunchy and chewy, bitter and sweet, and served with a house cultured butter that possesses the sour complexity you’d expect from a sophisticated cidery. Green bakes four loaves each day, enough for just 16 orders. He hand-mixes a blend of Washington and Oregon spelt, rye, and durum wheat flours and bakes it in cast-iron. And then there’s the water. Green told me he lugs buckets of natural spring water from Corbett because it’s cleaner than the city’s taps. Can’t say I taste it, but, sure! God is in the details, right?

If cider is a blind spot for you, no worries. Servers are happy to stop at “something not too sweet” or follow you down apple varietal rabbit holes. The general manager, Chris Leimena, came over from Le Pigeon, where he helped pair one of the city’s most impressive wine lists with tasting menus. Of the two dozen ciders on tap, a favorite was the French blend named Reine des Pommes (“queen of apples”): as velvety as the royal image its name conjures. The lightly hopped My Own Private Idaho 7 is as delicious for the Gus Van Sant reference as it is for its silky hint of lemongrass. And the magenta cider, a semi-dry staple you’ll see in most people’s glasses, is stained with loganberries from the Bauman’s farm.

That pink cider is berry-forward, but it had plenty of acid to cut through a smoked salmon tartine served on thin slices of dense, seeded rye. Indeed, bread shines as an element in dishes, too. A crab roll showcases a tender potato bun, buttery and toasted on its sides and stacked generously overfull with Dungeness. But Green, until this point known solely as a baker, also has no problem moving past bread. The Ruffles are to swipe through Bleu d’Auvergne, a funky and tannic French blue whipped into a mousse. In the summer, I had a fluke crudo with strawberry and chipotle chili. Lately, a melon salad filled the same spot on the menu, with delicate slices of sweet onion and feta.

Simple, of course, ain’t easy. This focused style of cooking puts every element under a microscope that amplifies any whiffed swings. A buttermilk panna cotta, though graceful and jiggly, was slicked with a savory/smoky sungold tomato caramel that pulled it outside the realm of dessert. However brilliant in theory, those sticky pork ribs lacked the tangy fireworks that a loganberry glaze promises. But minor squabbles like these are common—necessary, even—in the most exciting restaurants. While the pizza only pops up monthly, with a few exceptions, the rest of the dishes really only hang around in their current form for a single day. The menu is remarkably nimble, ready to adjust to whatever ingredients find their way through the doors, a practice that many restaurants claim but few manage to pull off. And refreshingly, the team clearly values making good food over having a nice story to tell. 

I haven’t eaten anything at Bauman’s that favored eccentric sourcing over deliciousness. What’s more, the menu just advertises, “Sourdough Bread,” “Chips & Bleu Cheese Dip.” Eating here does not require you to sit through overwrought tales of mycology and plant genera, unless, of course, you’re into that kind of thing. In fact, servers don’t force much of anything on you. This is a cider company’s taphouse, after all. It’s a celebrated, world-famous cider company, and a rather nice taphouse, with those preposterous, arching wood beams and even a reading corner with a set of upholstered chairs that scream “stay awhile.” But you can and should go for a snack and a pint. Idiosyncrasies and all, Bauman’s escapes the self-serious trap that snags so many restaurants devoted to homesteading.