“Listen, Sister,” the Squeeze said to me, waggling a piece of spice-crusted beef in creamy fenugreek sauce on his fork, “I’m not saying I don’t wish this was A-1.” My face must have fallen, just a little (but what did I expect, really?). He continued, smiling, “But it’s good.” Ah,I thought, thank goodness for that.

We’d already enjoyed our poppadoms (those most-delicious spiced and crispy wafers that often appear before a meal at an Indian restaurant) and our pakoras (vegetable fritters with coriander chutney)—both served with perfect accompaniments, full of flavor and not too, too spicy and The Squeeze appeared content as he tucked into his tandoor culotte steak. Across the table, I was a happy little clam. Though we were seated in the middle of the restaurant and right next to the kitchen, I didn’t feel crowded by other customers or by the stream of [friendly without being obnoxious] servers that moved past our table. Even the table right next to us, sharing the same bench on one side, was positioned at a respectable, breathable distance. You can’t enjoy your Carlton Farms pork vindahlo if you’re feeling hemmed in, you know.

And I did enjoy it. The portion size was rather massive, but the dish was quite well executed and flavorful. Even the rice—for which I had no expectations—held its own on the plate. It was light and mild and studded with crunchy (not soggy!) pistachio nuts. I definitely, definitely had my fix.

While I am sure that I enjoyed our meal more than the Squeeze did (I even loved his cauliflower puree, which he had a hard time getting excited about), I believe we both pushed back from the table satisfied, no need to swing by Burgerville on the way home. And though I consider Vindahlo—and the satisfying of my desperate craving for Indian food—a success, I don’t think I’ve exactly converted anyone.

It wasn’t any shortcoming of the restaurant’s, though. It’s just that some of us appreciate fine foods more than others.

Vindahlo
2038 SE Clinton Street
Portland, Oregon 97202
503-467-4550

Breakfast number one: Potato latkes and housemade applesauce, hold the sour cream. Best danged latkes of my life, seriously. I figure they must be deep fried as they came out a bit more round than flat, and perfectly—perfectly!—golden and crunchy all over. The applesauce, too, sort of blew my mind. It’s almost creamy and not too sweet. I’m salivating as I remember this.

Breakfast number two: Granola, also housemade, and yogurt with fresh fruit. Orange juice. The granola was pleasantly toasted and neither it nor the ample serving of yogurt was too sweet. Seasonal fruit complimented nicely, though I could have done without the honeydew.

Breakfast number three: Challah french toast, maple syrup. No powdered sugar, no fruit, no garnish, nothing to distract a girl from what’s important here: three inch-thick slices of pillowy challah bread in unobtrusive egg batter and perfectly (there I go with that word again) cooked. It was, without question, the best french toast I have ever had.

I have also witnessed the consumption of bacon, eggs, potatoes (well seasoned, brown on the outside and creamy within), bagels (chewy and delicious, no nonsense—or sweet flavors—here), scallion cream cheese (replete with fresh scallions; obviously made fresh), and rye toast at Kenny and Zuke’s. Every plate was clean; ever diner happy and sated.

I can’t wait to try lunch.

Kenny and Zuke’s Delicatessen
1038 SW Stark St
Portland, OR 97205
503.222.DELI (3354)

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 flopped and floundered about for a few weeks trying to come up with an appropriate and sufficiently awesome celebration. The Squeeze is not a boisterous celebrator; whatever I settled on would have to be subtle in its awesomeness. Not only that, but I wanted to be careful not to go crazy. We’re going to spent a lot of birthdays together — setting the bar too high now would not be doing myself a favor.

At last, I saw a blurb about K&B Bakery in an early issue of MIX Magazine. The piece highlighted the culinary delights near, of all places, SE Foster Road. A tiny, happy lightbulb brightened over my head. K&B does one thing: fortune cookies. And they do them very, very thoroughly. The cookies come plain, candy-coated, fruit flavor-dipped, with sprinkles, or dunked in chocolate (dark, milk, or white). All come individually wrapped, but you can also order sturdy plastic takeout containers or velvet pouches to enhance their presentation. And — get this — you can customize the tiny paper fortunes within.

So I picked out some song lyrics, made the appropriate changes, and placed my order on K&B’s website, feeling rather proud of myself.
The Squeeze’s fortunes were very plain considering all the options the cookie makers offer. When you order, you can choose the text font and paper color. You can add a stock graphic — a heart, rose, duck, christmas tree, or Chinese character, to name a few — or upload your own logo.

I picked the cookies up at the bakery. The storefront isn’t exactly welcoming, in fact I was a little nervous ringing the bell at the security door, but once I gained admittance, everyone was quite friendly. If you don’t live close by, K&B will ship your cookies to you. Even though I arranged for pick-up, the cookies were nestled in plenty of newspaper and bubble wrap to protect them from even the clumsiest mail carrier.

Friends and family be warned: I think this might be my new favorite thing. I thought the cookies made for a quiet, though pleasantly unexpected and entertaining, finale to the Squeeze’s birthday dinner. I’m just tickled at how well they turned out. In fact, I cannot think of an occasion for which custom fortune cookies would not be the perfect treat. Baby showers, weddings, housewarmings, Flag Day: yes, yes, yes, yes! It’d even be a pretty neat way to break up with someone, if that’s something you’ve got to do.

Plain fortune cookies run from $8.50 for twenty five to $260 for two thousand. The super-deluxe candy-coated cookies, with sprinkles, run a bit more. In small quantities they are just about a dollar each, but you can have thirteen hundred for a mere $910.

K&B Bakery
6300 SE Foster Road
Portland 97206

Perhaps it is redundant to note that as we entered the building, still adjusting to East Coast daylight and the unrelenting crush of bodies – that essential quality of New York City that we delight in then try to escape from – I felt acutely out of place. I’m from Portland, right? Where I go out to eat, they only ask that patrons be dressed, not that we dress in a particular fashion. Honestly, I don’t know what Asiate’s “Smart Business” is even supposed to mean.

Asiate, and what I saw of the Mandarin Oriental Hotel in which it is housed, is beautiful. Their interiors are modern and clean and made me feel sort of special just because I was inside, enjoying the view and using the fancy soaps in the luxurious restrooms. The massive glass wall of wine bottles at the entry to the restaurant welcomes guests with a not-so-subtle insistence: drink our wine. And then, from the thirty-fifth floor, with floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides of the space, the views of Central Park and downtown are even more impressive. We would have liked to sit next to a window, but the hostess evidently didn’t think we warranted a view. I do not wish to sound whiny here — in her place, I wouldn’t have given our bunch the greatest table either.

Our server, a woman who achieved a demeanor at once stern and cheery, was about forty and spoke with a nondescript European accent. She appeared not long after we were seated and offered to help me choose a glass of wine. I told her I that like dry reds and she steered me towards a St. Julien wine from the Bordeaux region in France. I heard her say the word “figs” in describing the nose or the aroma or something — then I stopped listening. I figured that, compared to the five-to-ten dollar-per-bottle brews I usually drink, anything she’d serve me would taste pretty great. Also, I do not have a firm command of wine-speak and I’d rather not bother trying to sound like I know what I am talking about when I am perfectly comfortable admitting that I do not. Having lunch out at a fancy restaurant is not about working hard.

I regret not paying more attention to the wine list, but I was counting on finding it on their website. Whatever it was that I had was delicious – more than delicious. It tasted of dried figs and was so subtly sweet. I’d tell you more about it, but I’ve already said that I don’t know what I am talking about. Suffice it to say that whatever was in my glass sort of rocked my world. I would have liked to track down a bottle for a special occasion, but, alas, neither the menu nor the wine list are published in the Interwebs.

Soon after we were served our wine and had placed our orders, there were little gruyere-filled herbed pâte à choux puffs. Then prawn goyza and panko-crusted salt cod fritters (served with spicy watercress and a rather bland sauce), then demitasses of red bell pepper soup. A waiter wandered the dining room carrying a wooden box of baguette pieces, brioche rolls, and focaccia squares. He served each customer individually, using a pair of spoons like tongs to place bread on square glass plates. At one o’clock the dining room was nearly full. Four Blackberry-toting young businessmen were seated at the table next to ours. They joked in French while their phones flashed on the tablecloth next to their soup bowls.

For our main courses, the Squeeze and I ordered wild salmon and duck wontons, respectively. The piece of salmon that came on his plate couldn’t have weighed less than eight ounces, the tapered ends of the filet flopping over the rim of the plate before him. It was glazed in a too-sweet honey sauce and cooked in such a way that it became utterly mushy. Underneath the sauce the fish itself tasted good, despite the distracting texture. Perhaps this is salmon cookery en vogue, but I could not help but wonder if this particular fish had been on it’s way to spawn when it was plucked from the ocean and made into lunch. The duck filling in my wantons was, as far as I could judge, unseasoned. The wontons sat in a shallow bowl of rich herbed coconut broth, along with carrots chunks and quartered pattypan squashes. The vegetables were perfectly al dente. I appreciated that.

Both the restaurant and the food we ate were very pretty. The staff was well turned out, the dining room tastefully and attractively appointed — it’s a nice place to be. But my only conclusion after having lunch there is that I am certainly not the sort of person that the restaurant exists for. I would have been much happier to pay the same amount of money for food that was more delicious and less handled. I’ve realized, too, that a place like Asiate is not a restaurant where one goes for top-of-the-line cuisine. There are other places in New York City for that, places like Thomas Keller’s Per Se, just a few doors down. A gal would go see Keller if she wanted to have a gastronomic experience. She goes to Asiate for the view of the City and the Park, for the totally adorable (and perfectly fine) demis of bell pepper soup, for the roaming waiter with his shiny spoons and box of brioche. And, compared to Keller’s prix-fixe prices, Asiate’s a bargain.

Asiate Restaurant
80 Columbus Circle at 60th Street
New York, New York 10023
212 805 8800

I think it must be a great trick of theirs, to produce all of these dishes in such a way that their texture, flavor, and presentation all land squarely at the midpoint between good and bad. The food is perfectly edible, though you may hardly notice that you are eating, aside from perhaps a stated feeling in your stomach by the time the plate is empty.

I can’t say that I’ve enjoyed my meals at the Thai Palace, though the service is always very friendly and their prices – especially for lunch – are low enough that I don’t particularly mind going in, so long as I am already in the neighborhood.

Thai Palace
1243 SW Jefferson Street / 97201

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.