With his I-did-it-my-way bluster and locavore intensity, Jason French embodies everything to love about Portland’s food scene. The playful depth of his homesteader’s cabin gone mad never lets up, from the name (after the 19th-century British folk hero) to the restaurant’s lone stove, a six-foot-high fireplace fueled by gnarly logs stacked everywhere. Among the surprises tumbling out of the open kitchen’s 750-degree cavern: a plate-size chocolate chip cookie, rising in a cast-iron skillet, its salt-crunching surface emerging one lucky degree shy of torched.