Sometimes location means everything-- but not always. Last night, along the seamier stretches of Congress Street, Portland’s love affair with 555 simmered unabated. At 7:45 we entered a packed room. Not a tourist in sight.

Fore Street, move over.

It was Portland’s night on the town. OK, some of the burbs were there too. A doctor from Yarmouth. An attorney from Scarborough. A dowager from Falmouth.

It makes me very happy that 555 continues to shine in an environment that occasionally seems dull. Good food brings hungry, loyal patrons.

Their carpaccio—they call it Steak and Cheese--is the best in town. I love the perfectly cut paper-thin slivers of beef, slender shavings of Parmesan and a crunchy kick of fried capers tickled with a touch of truffle oil. It’s a great dish with more ballyhoo than bacon and eggs.

I had the Pork Two Ways. That’s the thing, you know--multiple versions of a modest staple. Pork two ways, duck three ways, lamb seven ways? Need I count? Butter-tender slices of pork tenderloin were swathed in rich pan juices, coddled by a compote of dates and fennel, just the right condiment as though it were mustard, which instead found its way into those little whole-grain mustard dumplings sitting so primly on the plate Did I mention the pork belly? Well, I ate the meaty side of the belly. Those genetically disposed to being unaffected by fatty foods could devour the whole thing with unchecked passion. I poked it judiciously.

For dessert, we shared the beignets. Oh, they were good, with raspberries and ice cream. Dinner was just so fine, like a sensible feast for the fearless. I couldn’t have asked for a better meal.

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