We went during Happy Hour on a Saturday, trying to escape the massive Street Fair that had taken over our neighborhood (and our restaurants). We sat in the bar and watch the bartenders prep for the night and occasionally wait on tables. I’m sure it’s a pretty neat space once the sun goes down, but in the daylight the place looked too dark — black walls, black tables, plastic black chairs. Only after we were settled at our booth in the window did we notice the patio, which we agreed would have been a much better place to enjoy our early supper.

So — while I stand behind the lamb burger and fries, you’re on your own with the rest. Give ‘em a shot, then come back here and tell us what’s what.

Mint and 820
816 North Russell, Portland, OR 97227

Whenever I go to Nicholas, which is not nearly often enough, I have a spinach pie (from the pizza menu) and a bowl of lentil soup. In the past, I’ve experimented with various kabobs and mezza platters (you can have vegan, vegetarian, or meaty) and they’ve all been great, but now I’ve settled on the tangy spinach pie (filled with chopped spinach, onions, pinenuts, and sumac) and the subtle lentil soup (great for dunking all that warm, fluffy pita in). Go early in the day or expect to wait; this little spot in SE Grand is always busy.

Four: Miss Delta

The last time I suggested Mississippi Avenue’s Miss Delta to a friend, I was asked if the food was “South Carolina-Southern” or “Cajun-Southern” and I was rather at a loss to answer. I thought of the blackened cajun snapper and red beans over rice, and then of the crispy herbed fried chicken and vegan collard greens. I still don’t know how to classify the food at this fantastic little place, and I don’t particularly care. From the buttered brussels sprouts to the personal-sized pies to the 40-ounce PBR served over ice in a paint can, I love Miss Delta and I’ll call it whatever you want, so long as you go there.

Six: Nostrana

I had the margherita pizza with housemade mozzarella when I ate at Nostrana. I asked for fresh arugula on it too, applied right when the pizza came out of the wood-burning oven so the greens wilted just a little under the drizzle of olive oil. The sweet basil, creamy cheese and tangy rocket sang glorious notes atop perfect tomato sauce and a bubbly, crispy crust. Pizza will never be the same again. The meal was capped by Cathy’s four-ingredient gelato: the pistachio flavor tasted more like toasted pistachios than the nut itself. I don’t know how she does it but, oh my, she does it well.

I hesitate to admit that yesterday’s visit was my first ever but, indeed, that is the truth. We live so close to the Interstate Farmers Market that my not going every week is unforgivable.I do believe, however, that I will be making a regular habit of cruising down to the market on Wednesday evenings. Though the market is small – smaller than any other area market I’ve seen – there are some really, really great things to be had over here.

Since we’re skipping town and since there really is enough food in the house, we had only planned to buy some fruit. More than anything, I just wanted to check the scene out. I should have prepared better for my own weaknesses when faced with gorgeous produce and aromatic prepared foods. I should have left my dollars at home. But then, you see, I would not have made the following discoveries:

• Sticking with our original plan, we did pick up some fruit – a pint basket of Hood strawberries and one of cherries from Leopold Farms. This morning, the strawberries are turning the syrup in my breakfast bowl. The cherries are blood-colored and taste nothing – nothing – like cough syrup. Since they’re so ripe, the strawberries will need to be eaten today. I am preparing myself for a happy, satisfied stomachache.

• We probably made a full lap through the market before stopping again in front of the Serious Bread table. Yesterday they had pita breads, toasting breads, and BAGELS. Honest-to-goodness boiled deep golden brown bagels. My heart stopped. We bought half a dozen – two each poppyseed, everything, and cinnamon raisin. We took our berries and our bagels and our frozen lemonades from the Mocha ‘Roma cart, and we sat in the grass and listened to a couple of old guys with guitars singing a truly horrible cover of “Brown-Eyed Girl.”

Unable to wait until breakfast this morning, or even until we got back home, I insisted on splitting a poppyseed bagel and – oh good grief! – it was good. Aside from the cornmeal-free bottom, it was just perfect: really chewy and dense and flavorful on the inside; and the crust was dark and smooth and crisp. At last, I know where my bagels are coming from.

• Sun-warmed, quenched, and sated, we headed back towards our bikes, but our progress was arrested by the stand at the end of the lane, adjacent to the two old guys with guitars. The vinyl sign strung across the the canopy scaffolding, in front of which three women served the eager throngs, said “Micro-Mercantes,” which suggested to me a lot of things – micro-credit, social welfare, independence for women – but nothing about what was attracting so much business. I noticed the jug of horchata on the table, then the two huge steamers on a propane stove, then the iced squeeze bottles of red and green sauces. Then I saw the sign that read, quite simply, Tamales. Chicken, pork, vegetable. $3.00.

We bought two each of the chicken and pork varieties and took them home for our supper. I wrapped them in a moist kitchen towel, microwaved them for six minutes, minced some fresh cilantro, and served them alongside the sauces that accompanied them home. These, friends, are the best tamales I have found in Oregon. The masa was moist and corny and totally made with lard. (As uncomfortable as that may be to think about, lard makes tamales so delicious.) The meat in both was shredded, and well soaked with sauce – spicy red for the chicken and mellow tomatillo green for the pork. They were so flavorful, so tender.

The only thing I would have done to make them better is to buy more – which I’ll do, next week at the market. I recommend you check out the scene, and the Oregon Farmers’ Markets Association, right here.

UPDATE:

So we went back to the market yesterday. We brought some folks with us, promising them these spectacular tamales. The Squeeze and I worried all day, in fact, that they’d run out at the Micro Mercantes stand. We rushed to get their early. We came hungry.

The tamales, friends, were totally different. The fillings were different (both puerco and pollo were in a smoky red sauce and there were no tomatillos to be seen), and the little bundles were much more masa than they were meat. We were disappointed. We’d never rave about the food we had yesterday.

There were different people working the stand than the folks we remember from our first visit, and I’ve reasoned that everyone under the Micro Mercantes banner does things a little bit differently. My advice to you: look for the squeeze bottle of tomatillo sauce, and give them a second chance if you’re not instantly blown away.

It’s a whole different kind of expectation when gearing up to go to a restaurant that you’ve heard nothing about. When some wingnut with her own food ‘blog writes a rave about the taco cart on Lombard, everyone falls all over themselves in a rush for the famed carnitas, right? The eager gastrophiles cram in line and take turns reciting their favorite lines from the wingnut’s review. They know what to expect, so there’s no use waiting. It lacks suspense. But when the only notions you have of a place are of your making entirely, it’s a whole different show. The story is yours to write and until you’ve walked into the restaurant for the first time, nothing will contradict you.

So it was with the Thai Laundromat. I imagined the two businesses might be joined on the inside as well, giving diners a view of their tumbling whites while enjoying a plate of salad rolls and peanut sauce. I smelled dryer sheets and stain remover mingling above my head with the aromas of garlic, ginger and coconut milk wafting up from the meal. While I was eager to perhaps add a new eatery to my list, this game of make-believe was a guaranteed good time, and I wasn’t up for disappointment should the place turn out to be a dive. Frankly, I was prepared to be pleased if the food turned out to be just a notch above edible.

And then on one otherwise unremarkable day, I decided to quit dreaming and taste the stuff.

That was months ago, and now I regard the Thai Laundromat as my place, the food I am always in the mood for, the restaurant to which I take all new friends and out-of-town visitors. I’ll admit to being somewhat fanatical here, but for me the Thai Laundromat is all that I love of my neighborhood, poured into vinyl booths and large, ornate wooden carvings, into steamed white rice, green curry, and fresh salad rolls.

You would never know that the restaurant has a self-serve laundromat for a conjoined twin. Their skins may look similar, but entering the restaurant renders unsustainable all thoughts of bleach and dryer sheets and change machines. You might admire the lovely glass light fixtures hanging over the tables and booths, or the display case of teeny figurines just inside the street entrance. You may even notice that there are other people present, but soon your world narrows to the menu, to your company at the table, and to the fantastically good food.

I need you to appreciate the gravity of the following sentence: I could eat the Thai Laundromat’s Pumpkin Curry every day for a month and not tire of it. A surprise to some of the folks I’ve eaten with there, the pumpkin curry isn’t made with the jack-o-lantern type pumpkins most familiar to the western palate. Rather, it features the kabocha squash, which you may have seen before in Japanese cooking, perhaps on a plate of tempura veggies. The kabocha is a squat winter squash with rough-looking (though edible) dark green skin. It is egg yolk yellow on the inside, and the texture of the flesh falls somewhere between silky and crumbly. I’ve never met a kabocha that I didn’t love. It is sweet and earthy. It is just the thing to add to the Thai Laundromat’s spicy sweet coconut-and-basil curry sauce.

I’ve tried to work my way through the menu. About sixty percent of the time, I manage to order something other than the Pumpkin Curry. Usually, this is only possible because I’ve talked someone else into getting it and sharing with me. The Pineapple Fried Rice is always a winner, and features a ton of the largest cashew nuts I have seen anywhere. Drunken Noodles make me wiggly. The Peanut Curry, not printed on the regular menu (it was a special once, and I’ve just kept on ordering it), is one of the best things I have ever tasted anywhere. Rather than itemize my delights, which will only keep you here longer when you should be putting on your coat to go find this place, I’ll instead share my only two disappointments. I’ve had two stir-fries that were merely good, not great. The Garlic and Pepper and the Cashew Nut dishes just don’t live up to the (very high) standards that this place has set for itself. I finished them both of course, scraping the bowl with the plastic spatula I’ve taken to carrying in my purse when I eat there, but the high wasn’t as euphoric as I’ve come to expect of the place.

I have one other complaint about the Thai Laundromat: it’s getting crowded in there. Every time I go in for a meal it feels busier, like someone’s let the secret out. In the beginning of my relationship with the restaurant, back when I was only a causal user, some days my friends and I were one of only a few groups for lunch or dinner. These days, most of the tables are filled and there is a regular flow of folks who stop in for take out orders.

It’s hard to know just what to do when a gal finds a really great restaurant like this. Selfishly, I am tempted to want to suspend it in time. I want there always to be an open table for me. I want the food to be as good tomorrow as it was today. In fact, I don’t think I could handle it being any better. A diet of little more than coconut milk, basil, and kabocha squash probably lacks some necessary nutrient or vitamin or something. I hope they never reupholster the booths or repaint the neon green bathroom, and I hope they never have to hire a new cook or server. One in six visits, the place really does smell a bit like laundry detergent, and I like that too. But it’s unreasonable and unhealthy to resist the sort of inevitable change that marks the growth and maturing of a good restaurant. As the neighborhood changes, the Thai Laundromat will have to change a little bit with it, and I really ought to celebrate their success, not mourn it.

I love watching the slow grins bloom across the faces of my more skeptical friends when they take their first bite of green curry or spring roll. You said it’d be good, they tell me, but I didn’t think it was gonna be that good. It seems that now my desire to go public with this pleasant surprise is larger than my wish to keep the Thai Laundromat all for myself, as if that were even possible. I have heard other happy patrons chatting about the upswing in business, and I am ready to make peace with having to share my find with the rest of the city. So, dear readers, go there. Go if you love Thai food, because you won’t be disappointed. Go if you’ve never had Thai food and you want to try it. Go even if you think you hate Thai food, because I am confident that this place will change your mind. Go, and then tell your friends, your mom and your colleagues about it. If it’s going to get crowded in there, at least we can try to fill it with people who have good taste in little known food ‘blogs.

Monsoon Thai Cuisine
4236 N Mississippi (at Skidmore)
503.280.7087

     The thing I like so much about this coffee shop is that it’s a very focused place. It is sparsely decorated, but not remotely sterile. There are comfortable places to sit, there is a counter at which to order your drink, and they even offer a couple of pastries if you are feeling nibblish. They know how to make a drink there, which is evident not only in the quality of their product, but in the barista award plaques displayed on the walls and counter. There isn’t a forest of syrup bottles. They don’t make smoothies or frappies or squishies. They make coffee and espresso and some loose teas. And it’s good.

     So I get off the bus in the rain and go inside. It’s seven and pouring and really dark outside. The interior of the shop immediately provides relief from the bus and the rain and the tired ache that’s been creeping up my neck. The deep, rich coffee smell hooks me by my nostrils and draws me towards the counter. On my way I noticed that there are pretty people at all of the tables. They all have Apple laptops and are browsing Craigslist, writing their brilliant Master’s theses, or designing wrapping paper patterns for the holiday season already upon us. I think I see Hillary Clinton in someone’s Skype conference, but as I get close enough to tell for sure, he hurriedly folds his computer closed and gives me the Stink Eye.

     Brown bags of preportioned coffee beans are piled around the cash register, stacked three or four high. I survey my immediate options, then the bean menu written on the chalkboard on the wall. Having given up premium beans in favor of a more economical brew some years ago, nothing leaps out as a clear choice, and I decide to ask the guy behind the counter for his opinion.

     The barista has one black eye and elaborately styled Emo hair. He is wearing tight black jeans and a new-but-old-looking t-shirt with something spray-painted off-center on the front. He politely asks what I am looking for, and I tell him that I am interested in his take on the beans.

     I do this a lot. When spending fourteen or twenty dollars for one pound of coffee, I am much more willing – if not eager – to shelve my characteristic shyness towards strangers and dive into long chats (if that’s what it takes) on the relative acidity of the Sumatran versus the Rwandan beans. It usually goes like this:

• ME: I am looking for some beans.
• THEM: What kind of beans do you like?
• ME: I tend towards medium-dark roasts – something with a little less caffeine and a little more flavor.
• THEM: Our peaberry is really good right now. It’s really floral and vanilla-y.
• ME: How about something bigger? I’ve really enjoyed some of your African beans. And a few months ago I had a little of the Nicaragua Los Delirios that I thought was pretty rockin’.
• THEM: Okay, I think I know what you are looking for. Why don’t you try the Costa Rican – it’s a lot like the Nicaraguan you liked.

     And then I pay and leave happy.

     But the black-eyed barista is evidently incapable of engaging in such an exchange. I say I am looking for a darker roast. He says, Do you mean bitter? ‘Cause that’s what I think of when someone says “dark.” I scrunch up my face a little. What kind of a nutter asks for bitter coffee?

     I try to be clearer with my request. No, I don’t mean bitter, I say, wondering if someone also knocked his brains loose when they gave him that shiner. I mean roasted dark. Most beans used for espresso are dark roasts. The classic French roast is dark. And, while it is generally accepted that dark roasts don’t make for as complex or subtle a cup as do lighter roasts, to my knowledge asking for a well roasted pound of beans isn’t as criminal as, say, asking for a well done entrecote.

     We don’t have any dark roasts. They are all Full City, he tells me, sounding annoyed, as if I should have known, as if I must not understand where I am or with whom I am speaking. He asks if there is any Guatemalan stacked on the counter. That’s what I tell people to get when they come in asking for dark roasts, he says, passing a cup of tea to his previous customer and returning to the counter in front of me. I don’t see any Guatemalan and by now I just want to leave. I want to buy whatever beans lay closest to my left hand. I want to reach out and grab them, throw a wad of cash onto the counter and stomp out towards anywhere else. He asks me to clarify what I really mean when I say “dark.” It’s almost like he wants to help me, but this question is so nonsensical that I can’t think of how to begin my next sentence. I hesitate, agape.

     Chewy, I attempt, which I can see in retrospect probably isn’t the most precise adjective I might have picked. I want to say that I think a lot of light roasts turn out too thin in body and too fruity in flavor. I want to tell him that I like darker coffee because it has less caffeine than lighter roasts and because I do, in fact, enjoy a bit of acidity in my morning cup. None of this is coming out, though, and now he has come around the counter, presumably to look at the beans with me. He picks up a bag from the bottom of the pile and passes it to me. See? I knew we had some. The Guatemalan’s right here. He doesn’t say it like he’s happy for me that we’ve found the beans I want. He says it like I should have seen them and now he thinks that in addition to having bad taste in coffee, I am also a moron.

     I ask to see and smell the beans, which have come prepackaged from Stumptown Coffee Roasters. A minute ago, I wanted to leave, but now I want to make him work for the sale. No, no, no, I can’t open the package, even though it’s not sealed. But I am in luck – he has some brewed. He presses two tablespoons of coffee into a demitasse and hands it to me to taste. I take a sip, not paying any attention to the coffee in my mouth, and swallow. It’s fine, I say, I’ll take it.

     Fine? The black-eyed barista is not moving any closer to the cash register. He is standing only halfway behind the bar with one hand on his hip, his mouth making incredulous smirk. I echo; it is fine. As in, it will do. As in, I want to go home now. I don’t think it’s fine, he continues, and then with the chipperness of a middle school cheerleader, I think it’s great. I stare blankly; but he is obviously waiting for my riposte. It’s kind of sweet, I sigh, and thin. I am starting to think about leaving again, only in this version of my fantasy, I throw the beans overhand, like a football, and nail him in his non-bruised eye.

     But then he says something that frees me: Well, he begins, now exasperated, surely thinking that I will never, ever learn, and that now he’ll have to sanitize the counter where I’ve touched it and apologize to his other customers for subjecting them to such a blasphemous conversation, it tastes like coffee.

     I don’t remember exactly how I got out of the coffee shop. All I know is that I did, because I am home now and because I made some coffee this morning. The Guatemalan beans that I bought were, as expected, much too light for my taste. I had to use more beans than usual and it still tasted watery. I do not wish to suggest that the coffee I bought is of poor quality. It’s great coffee, in fact: subtle, nuanced, complex. And light. Good, but not what I wanted and not what I asked for.

     I think I know what the black-eyed barista was trying to do when I asked for dark roasted beans. He is a proud member of the Portland Bean Scene. He is probably better educated about coffee than I’ll ever care to be. It’s his thing and he clearly has strong opinions about it. Moreover, he works at a coffee shop with a reputation for serving excellent drinks. He took my reasoned preference as misguided ignorance and he thought he’d educate me, maybe change my mind about things, maybe give me my first “real” taste of coffee.

     I can relate, to a point. I was a barista once upon a time, kind of. I was a baker and a bookseller and a deli counter gal who spent a lot of time behind the nearest coffee bar. I know the basics about growing and harvesting and roasting, and am familiar with the profiles of the world’s growing regions. I’ve been to “cuppings,” events hosted by roasters who brew half a dozen pots and then talk participants through a tasting not unlike those for wine. I know what a real macchiato is, and I can make a mean one.

     I got my introduction to the mighty bean in a coffee shop not unlike The Albina Press, in fact. It was a serious coffee joint where we did coffee, tea and espresso correctly and traditionally for it’s own sake, out of respect for the bean and the leaf. And while a lot of our customers could tell the difference between a poorly made drink and a good one, there were many who could not be convinced that we knew what they wanted better than they did. Starbucks regulars, for example, have a habit of ordering The Bucks’ proprietary drinks where ever they go, even if those beverages aren’t on the menu. And while it’s not fun to make a drink that you think is a hideous offense to your glorious beans, you still make it. You just overcharge for it.

     It’s frustrating to see something that you care about destroyed by what you perceive as a third party’s terrible taste. For cooks, it’s ketchup on prime rib. For bakers, whipping cream in the eclair. And for baristas these days, it seems to be dark roasted coffee beans.

     But my understanding of the black-eyed barista’s exasperation towards me isn’t enough to excuse his unprofessional manner. I have never lived so close to a coffee shop as I do to The Albina Press. It is walkable in any weather and they make a really tasty cup. I have long fantasized about walking to my local java joint first thing in the morning for a cup and a browse of the morning’s news – and it’s in my reach, right over there at The Press. But I’m not going there, not any more. I prefer to my caffeine fix without having elbow past the combative hipster barista to get it.

     When I saw the black-eyed barista, I felt a little sorry for him that he’d been roughed up. I wondered if he’d been hassled at the bar the previous night (maybe about his silly hairdo), or if he lives with a woman who perhaps doesn’t know how to express her anger in any other way. But walking out of the shop, I didn’t wonder at all about his black eye. I figure it must have been the last person who tried to talk to him about coffee beans.

Though most mobile kitchens (which is what those trailers all over town are, regardless of their actual mobility) are little more than shacks, that aspect of their construction is not something I like to focus on when enjoying their fares. A shack sits on a mountain slope, possibly inhabited by a bearded and socially awkward recluse. A shack is a structure you can use as a painting studio in the summertime. Shacks are on beaches. They have sagging thatched roofs; they creak and bend perched on the constantly-shifting sand. Shacks hold rusty garden tools. Shacks are for ghosts and cobwebs.

Also, I am not an eater of ribs. At my childhood dinner table, ribs came from either a restaurant in Salinas called Smalley’s Roundup (fantastic steak fries, as I recall) or from Smokin’ Jim. Jim had a mobile home and a huge fire pit attached by a trailer hitch. The only place you could count on finding him was the County Fair in August. The rest of the year we could only wait to spot him in parking lot somewhere. In the late 90s we all got cell phones, thus enabling easy cancellation of dinner plans in favor of his delicious barbecue. Whenever dinner came from Jim or Smalley’s, I’d have a grilled chicken breast which, of course, they both wisely offered. I love the charcoal grill flavor, but have always preferred something easier to eat. All of that gnawing and the sauce, the extra napkins and dental floss – it didn’t seem worth it.

The only other thing that bothered me about Da Rib Shack was the only other thing I knew about it: the legitimization of non-standard English, Da. Of course, I see now that Da is part of the charm, that a place called The Rib Shack would fly crooked and feel inauthentic. After all of the jaw-flapping I’ve done about honest food, you would think I’d have understood this one right off.

Now that Da Rib Shack is open and I’ve tried it a few times, I love it. I love that it exists, and that I live in a neighborhood that can sustain it. I love that everyone I’ve met working or eating there has been warm and friendly. I love that their food tastes really good. I love the hand painted, graffiti-inspired sign. I love that they serve only vegetarian-fed, organic meats and that they support local agriculture. I love that their southern greens are vegan and that they offer sweet potato cheesecake for dessert.

But I am getting ahead of my own story.

* * *

A nice introduction, right? Maybe it ran a little long, but I liked it. But before I could proceed – you can see that I was just about the get to the good part – I wanted to have one more taste of that aromatic barbecue. I was going to tell you about the brisket sandwich that changed my mind about saucy meats. I was going to extol the vegan greens and rice and the friendly service and the cook who honestly cares that you are happy and satisfied and – - The plan was to compose a review that would, provided that Da Shack did not disappoint, propel all of my Portland readers to hop on TriMet’s Number Four, stomachs rumbling and pockets stuffed with with cash.
Also, I was hungry.
Alas, much longed-after meal could not be procured. I had the lunch special at the Mississippi Pizza Pub instead and then returned home, worried. After frumping about for a number of minutes, thinking of what I would do if I couldn’t get those black eyed peas anymore, I decided that it’s better to know than to wonder. If Da Rib Shack is really closed, I’d rather get the story straight so that I can grieve and cry and, someday, hopefully move on.

Their e-mail address was conveniently printed on the menu that I had grabbed as a souvenir of my first visit, so I wrote them:

Dear Missing Rib Merchants,

I have been craving a brisket sandwich for a week. On Sunday, my Squeeze and I walked down to your corner for lunch, salivating and quite eager to feast upon your delicious po’boys and delectable black-eyed peas. Indeed, we had been talking about it for days. When we arrived at Da Shack and saw that the awning was gone and the place closed up, we refused to consider that you might be gone. We reasoned that, it being a Sunday, it was not unlikely that you would be closed. But today when we made the walk again, the evidence could not be ignored. Is this true? Has Da Rib Shack left our dear Mississippi Avenue so soon?

If this is so, I am disappointed not only on behalf of my taste buds, but also because I was looking forward to completing an article I had been writing about you, rhapsodizing over your tasty barbecue and singing the praises of your friendly service.

Perhaps you are merely taking a break? Vacation? Perhaps Da Rib Shack is already moving into more substantial digs or a more suitable location, though I cannot imagine a better corner.

Hopefully awaiting another brisket sandwich,

J9

* * *

This morning I received a bittersweet reply. Though it seems the Shack as I know it is closed, they are offering catering and holiday desserts, with delivery available from noon to six p.m. for orders of at least $35. I suppose I’ll just have to have a party.

And that is the end of my tale, though it didn’t shake out as happily as I’d like. I’m still hungry and I still want a darned brisket sandwich and some black eyed peas ‘n’ rice. Sure, there are plenty of other barbecue joints in the city and I am sure that at least one of them is almost as good. But I can’t imagine that any of them is as charming or as honest as da Shack.

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

Blackberry.

Dahlia.

Pear.

.
Trolls, evidently.

This afternoon as I walked about my neighborhood the light was just so lovely, and there was food growing everywhere. In my little corner of the city, we’ve got walnuts, hazelnuts, pears, peaches, four kinds of plums (that I’ve spotted so far), apples, figs and berries, berries, berries. And that’s not even counting the scores of planted gardens. Last year it was the farmer’s markets the struck me as the best part of the season. This time around, I hardly have to leave my porch.

Occasionally, however, I stumble upon an eatery that I feel compelled to rant about. One such recent trainwreck of a meal was from Pizza A Go Go on N. Williams Avenue.

When I tell people that I had a disappointing pie from Pizza A Go Go, further stating that my allegiance in neighborhood pizzerias is henceforth firmly planted with the Mississippi Pizza Pub, the only response I’ve heard has been “well, at least they deliver.” That’s right, not a single person has come to the defense of A Go Go with anything more convincing than their after-four delivery service. Indeed, it is a draw. On the very day that the Squeeze and I had out pie from A Go Go, our first priority was to set on a meal that someone would bring to the house. That it was a new place that neither of us had eaten at was an extra-special bonus. That is was pizza was inconsequential. What I mean to convey here, is that I did not head out into the world on one chirpy spring day looking for culinary delight. I was merely home on a weekday afternoon, too busy to cook for myself and desperately hungry. To disappoint when the standards are set so low is quite an accomplishment, I’d say.

Strike one: While the website hawks their delivery service, nowhere does it say “but only after four p.m.” Then again, their website also states that they make the “Freshiest, tastiest, kickiest combos around.” I should have known. I would have been much happier making this discovery in print, before I called to place my order. When the polite young man apologized for not being able to deliver my pie, I was unable to admit that my choice of eateries was based wholly around my own laziness, not a desire to eat one of their “kickiest” pizzas.

Strike two: We picked up the pizza twenty-five-to-thirty minutes after placing the order, as instructed. The shop – small and hip and attractive on the corner of N. Williams and N. Cook – smelled incredible. As soon as I stepped through the door, I felt relief, assurance. We were in for a treat, I was certain, if the pizza shack smelled so good. The perfect pizza triad of tomato, garlic and oregano wafted into my expectant nostrils. The pie was sitting on top of the oven when we arrived. The transaction was smooth, speedy and satisfactory, inasmuch as paying twenty-two bucks for a pizza can be. When we got outside and lifted the cardboard lid I noticed the cheese had begun to congeal. This is something that happens, as we all know, when melted cheese begins to cool once it’s been brought out of the oven, boxed, sliced, and set to rest for the customer. This is why I make it a point to be as prompt as possible according to the readiness instructions I am given over the phone. So, the pie had been kept waiting, languishing, dying.

Strike Three: It tasted awful. This, really, is what it’s all about. The rest of my complaints are just straws, small annoyances that only serve to highlight this one unforgivable problem. The pizza was bad. The toppings were wrong. Not incorrect per my order, but just so badly done. The red onion was sliced so thin that, once surrounded by cheese (too much) and baked, they disappeared both in texture and in flavor. The cheese, as I mentioned, was too thick, and too cool by the time it got to us. And, I swear, the “parmesan” that came already sprinkled over the pie had to have been shaken out of a green cardboard canister. The “herbed chicken breast” was neither herbed, nor was it breast. It was unseasoned chicken meat, full of tendons and globules of fat. Futhermore, it was dried out and stringy and, it seemed to me, old. The crust, underbaked and flat, had a texture suggestive of partially-dried white glue. It was thin, but not crisp on the bottom and did not rise at all underneath the avalanche of cheese and soupçon of chicken, onions, and garlic paste.

We ate it, because we were hungry and we’d paid twenty-two dollars for it. But next time – I don’t care if they deliver – I am going elsewhere. In fact, I’d rather just be hungry than gnaw on another pizza a go-go.

sweet potato fries (with sea salt, coarse black pepper and rosemary) @ The Leaky Roof
They came as a dollar-extra side with my buffalo burger. The burger was unimpressive (particularly as the [inept, socially awkward and downright weird] server got my order wrong the first time) and later made my tummy, quite unused to eating red meat, pay, pay, pay. The fries, however, more than made up for the misplaced mayonnaise and the bellyache.

habanero “martini” (with pineapple and lemon) @ Vault
Be warned: this incredible, knee-weakening beverage is served at a “martini” bar in the Pearl District. I shall not, this time around, rant about how a drink is not a martini just because it is served in a martini glass. I shall not moan and groan about fake tans or fake boobs, or why we are made to feel funny about consuming calories in public. No. I shall say only this: I would not venture into the Pearl for a drink on the Saturday night with my girlfriends if it weren’t really, really worth it. The habanero burns just long enough and then fades at the back of the palate to a sweet pineapple glow. It is downright addicting, intoxicating (in a way not attributable to the vodka), and worth every minute spent laughing at the orange-tinged guy at the bar. Additional recommendations: the Cilantro, the Cucumber Mojito and the Voodoo Queen.

pho ga (with that whole wonderful plate of stuff) @ Pho Hung . It may seem childish and unimaginative to order chicken noodle soup in a house of Pho, where the menu includes much more exciting Vietnamese fare (tripe, anyone?), but the pho ga is good – just plain, easy, tasty-as-all get-out Good. Never you mind that it’s listed under the “for beginners” section of the menu. Go ahead; and pile on the bean sprouts!

cuban bowl (with grilled draper valley chicken and hot, hot sauce) @ Laughing Planet.
After finishing this pleasant, inexpensive, and tasty meal at my nearby LP, I was completely unable to understand why I don’t eat there every week. The cuban bowl boasts plantains and sweet potatoes and really fresh, bright pico de gallo. Isn’t it swell when you can get up from a meal feeling almost healthier than when you sat down?