food. according to me.

Amnesia

After he came home from work to an unexpectedly empty house, after I came home from my meeting, and after we both decided that what I'd planned for us to eat (salad rolls and the previous night's Thai leftovers) didn't sound so great after all, we stood in our tiny kitchen somewhat grumpily eliminating options until we landed on the brewery.

We are not the sort of people who hang out at a brewery. We are, in fact, not the sort of people who "hang out" anywhere. In my case, I am not of that type anymore; I don't know if he ever was but it is difficult to believe that one could have skipped that 24-hour-Pie House phase of adolescence. Last night, however, a number of things recommended the brewery as our most appealing option.

First, it is close to our house, a moment or two by bicycle or a seven-minute walk. Second, he had never been there. Third, the menu at the brewery is small, simple, and accessible. There aren't so many items to bog down the mind of tired, hungry souls such as ourselves. Fourth, there would be beer, naturally; and standing in the tiny kitchen thinking about beer made me sort of happy.

The brewery is on the main street in our neighborhood, the nexus of the gentrification which I am counting on to raise my property value sufficiently so that we can afford to move before this place becomes unbearably hip. For now, the street is a pleasant mix of new boutiques and old, cruddy storefronts and warehouses. We have three coffee shops, all of them trendy but only one so much that it is alienating. An antique store went in last summer, which I kind of like, but the rapid multiplication of "size four stores" is a disappointment. What really kills me, though, is that the tiny produce market around the corner will close at the end of the month, citing "unforeseen economic conditions." I haven't asked what, exactly, is moving them out of my neighborhood and into an area not yet re-developed, but I suspect commercial rent has begun to increase here. Now, our only providers of fresh fruit and veg are the chain grocery stores and the overpriced community market about twenty blocks away. I would rather spend my money at the community joint - their window adverts suggest that they are supporters of the local, sustainable, and organic movements - but the thing I liked so much about my market, the one that is closing, is that they carried all of the same stuff, except no one hung around with flowers in their hair or a BMW parked at the curb.

The brewery, I suspect, was installed on the street before anyone was interested in living near it. I can remember downtown Portland when The Pearl was called The Brewery Blocks. Walking up West Burnside on the way to Powell's Books or the 24-hour Zupan's Market, the area smelled like old, stale, warm beer. That smell, I am sure, was the first thing to go.

The brewery in our neighborhood isn't like the big beer company down the street, with tours and large windows looking on to the polished stainless steel vats and fancy German menus and a carpeted dining room and leather booths with brass trim. The "dining area" feels like an afterthought, as if one afternoon people showed up for pretzels and pints, needing somewhere to sit, and the management pulled some picnic tables out of the staff break room. There is some indoor seating and a proper bar, behind which four chalkboards and multiple handwritten signs on copy paper serve as the menu. No matter what you want or where you plan on sitting, your first stop is always there - the bartender is your host and order-taker.

The menu, I've said, is very small and simple. You can have bratwurst or burgers and everything comes on a bun with potato chips off of the charcoal grill situated outside at one corner of the "beer garden." There are several different types of brat, and a burger is available made of cow or veggies, with or without cheese. There are also peanuts, pretzels, and goldfish crackers, on order of which comes in a pint glass and costs a dollar. As for drinks, there are the house-taps and guest draughts, wine by the bottle or glass, hard cider, and soft drinks. If you order something from the grill, the bartender will give you a neon pink card with a letter markered onto it to stand on your table. We ordered a meat burger, a veggie burger and two hard ciders, closed our tab, and plunked down at a picnic table in the garden, where we tugged on our delicious pear ciders and watched everyone else receive their food first.

Lately I have been thinking a lot of about honest food. Or, if you like, poser food. Or, authentic food, being exactly and unapologetically what it is. This is a tricky judgment, as contemporary American cuisine is reasonably fluid, in that a dish can be anything the chef says it is, leaving the customer only to gauge how successfully the meal is in satisfying her appetite. But I'll just go ahead and say that I don't think a hamburger can happily and honestly coexist with white linen napkins. And that there is definitely something wrong with offering beef at an Indian restaurant. And, certainly, a place called Da Rib Shack could never have table service. So maybe what I like so much about the brewery is that does not pretend to be anything that it isn't and you can see, with great transparency, just exactly what it is. There is no bullshit, no "gourmet" items thrown onto the menu in an attempt to attract a different clientele. It is comfortable in there, easy to sit with a book or a trio of buddies.

You want a tasty porter and a hot, delicious veggie burger? You wanna watch the grill master take it out of the cooler and apply it to the barbecue? You wanna help yourself to a napkin from roll of paper towels sitting on the table next to yours? You wanna do all of this while watching the Mississippi Street foot traffic as the sun sets rather picturesquely behind the West Hills? Then, go - -
Amnesia Brewing
832 North Beech Street
Portland, Oregon 97227
503 281 7708