Kirby Neumann-Rea: Pesto memories
NEWS item, McMinnville News-Register, July 31, 2026:
“Nick’s Italian Cafe owners posted to Facebook that the restaurant is closed permanently? Spokesman for the building owners said they are actively looking for a new, quality restaurant tenant ...”
A number of factors fueled our decision five years ago to move to McMinnville. The chance to work at the News-Register: the evident pleasures of living in a vibrant town and scenic area, my connection to Linfield University as a member of the Class of ’80, Lorre and I were married in Mac, and Lorre’s family connections.
Then there was Nick’s Italian Cafe and its owner, my friend Nick Peirano.
Returning to McMinnville had the simple draw that Nick’s was here — for I am a proud alum not just of Linfield, but also of the kitchen at 521 N.E. Third St. Nick hired me in 1979 to wash dishes and help with food prep, a job that sustained me financially — and personally — throughout my 1979-80 year.
The friendships endure. So, I had been looking forward to the 50th anniversary of the restaurant in February 2027.
Nick’s decor, menu and ownership changed over the years, yet it has consistently remained the culinary center of Yamhill County, if not the north Willamette Valley. So it is with deep sadness that I ponder McMinnville without Nick’s, now that its closure is possibly permanent.
Nick’s was always home. Its closure is like losing a family member.
A News-Register article in April 1977 stated, “The overall clean-looking Italian cafe does not disguise the building, a small-town diner.” Over the years, little written about Nick’s quite captured its enveloping, enduring ethos.
One of the joys of returning for Homecoming or a brewery stop in McMinnville was the likelihood of just happening into Nick on the street. I’d be on Third and Nick would come around the corner, off to friends for a glass of wine or game of pool.
Or I would pop into the inestimable “back room,” later Refire Bar, and we’d catch up there.
Plenty about Nick’s simply has remained with me ever since 1980.
Nick’s was the kind of place where Descartes was break room reading material.
Phenomenal art was everywhere.
My favorite was a wine-and-fruit still life painting by Nick’s father, Ray. In the reflection in the bottle, Ray created a small self-portrait.
I still hold the Nick’s kitchen record for most drink glasses broken at once — 27.
Once, when I was chopping blue cheese for the salad dressing, Nick told me, “Don’t make the pieces so small. I want them as big as golf balls.”
You could count on cool music to play on the turntable: Working at Nick’s introduced me to Ella Fitzgerald and Mose Allison, who got spun at least a couple times a week.
Nick made sure this poor college student knew I could come into the restaurant anytime for a meal, gratis.
These things, and more, were Nick’s. The place was people first, but, oh, the food — starting with the antipasto of cantaloupe and prosciutto.
Though somewhat puzzled, I prepared it as one of my first tasks. Then I tasted it. I had NO idea.
Day one, I watched Nick and Ray side-by-side, rolling out the spinach ravioli, its tender dough “so thin and satiny,” to quote restaurant reviewer David Sarasohn.
Nick and Ray moved slowly and talked softly as they shaped the pale green pillows. I’d had ravioli before, but never seen it made.
Come to taste Nick’s family-recipe ravioli?
NO idea.
Same with the baked trout, the chicken tetrazzini, steak and capers, lasagna, cannelloni, zabaglione and, another Nick’s signature dessert, the remarkable chocolate torte, which paired well either with Pinot or espresso.
And, of course, the minestrone that people would drive for miles to enjoy with the absolute perfect bread. Swirling the Parmesan and pesto into the hot soup was a savory ritual.
Pesto was a revelation for me in 1979. That basil-powered ambrosia just spoke Nick’s.
Nick’s was rustic yet refined. Early on, it received one reviewer’s estimation as “the best Italian food between Seattle and San Francisco.” Its many awards and kudos included the 2014 America’s Classics award from the James Beard Foundation.
Nick’s had regulars who swore by it. “You got a job at Nick’s? Lucky!” one of my profs said in September 1979.
To work there in those early years was to gradually understand the modest, nuanced sophistication created by the woody booths, candlelight, elegant jazz and landmark wine list.
I recall, circa November 1979, the sardonic chuckle Nick and his close friends and employees John and Jeroe and Maxine had over a glowing review that also described eating from “a motley collection of plates.”
The description was essentially true. The plates did not always match. But the singular dishes served on casual dinnerware was sort of the point.
Some may remember a singular touch at Nick’s, the Marty Wallen alcove, left by employee Martin Wallen — an author and now literature professor emeritus at Oklahoma State University.
When Marty left to attend graduate school in 1979, he nailed a small plaque on a low wall next to the back seating area. The three-inch brass sign read, “This alcove we warmly dedicate to the memory of M. Wallen.” The plaque remained until an early 2000s remodel, when it was set aside but lost.
So many memories remain as I ponder the future of the space.
A year or so after working there, I visited a Linfield friend. A snowstorm hit while we were dining on minestrone and bread at Nick’s.
Lee and I had a snowball fight on Third as we headed back to Linfield, and my glasses fell out of my pocket. Later, when I realized they were missing, I retraced my steps all the way to Nick’s, where someone had turned them in.
Snowfall or sunshine, it always felt like all roads led to Nick’s. No matter what happens, people will long remember — even those who remember its earlier life as Cafe Dinette — McMinnville’s signature Italian Cafe as the center of the McMinnville compass.
Chief among my Nick’s memories was a night seven years after I graduated: Lorre and I had our rehearsal dinner party in that back room space.
Long before it became McMinnville’s speakeasy, it was a bare storage room of concrete and brick. Nick arranged for tables and chairs to be set up, and his staff served a full-course dinner there for 25 family and friends.
I am proud to say ours was the first event held in what became — well, already was — revered space in McMinnville. Despite the discouraging July 31 announcement, I retain hope for a return: Even partial glory would be enough.
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