A Sunday Morning in Portland: Another Breakfast at Fats

So come a day or two after the ball dropped in Gotham, me and Dolly-girl got a buzz on the blower from Tootsie and Slim. Seems they got a what-you-call pied-à-terre, you know, a place you keep in a town for stepping out on your better half, except in this case, Tootsie and Slim are stepping out with each other. They just want to do their stepping in Stumptown. Can't short 'em on that--The Valley may be something to look at, but you don't need no sleeping salts down there, read me?



Anyway, the long end of the short side of it was they were looking for a place to tie on the feedbag and they wanted it to be new. They dialed the right number--we knew just the place. We headed to Gourmet Gulch on shank's mare and met them at Fats. You never know what you'll see these days in the way of yard art. I'm guessing this machine still had some life in it. Thelma would have been happy to have it down at the office. That manual adding machine is getting hard on her elbows...


Our neck of the woods has sprouted a lot of what Dolly-girl calls "murals" these days. They look like pictures painted on walls to me, but she's studied stuff like that at universities of higher learning that take your money faster than a Rolex salesman at Salmon and Broadway, so I generally believe her when she's got some fancy name for things.










Slim and Tootsie pulled up in their roadster and we said our how-do-yas and walked up to the joint. Me and Dolly-girl had been there before , and we figured it was worth another trip. I held the door open for the day's first customers, a couple of chiquitas that looked like they had breaking a fast on their minds. Dolly-girl, Tootsie, and Slim followed them through the door with the same thing on their minds. I took a look down the street and then went in.



Slim picked us a table in the corner that gave me a good view out the window at a part of Stumptown that used to see the likes of Mister Trouble more nights than not, and days too. But these days, he keeps his hands in his pockets when he walks by. Me? I just keep my eyes open and my heater where Messrs. Smith & Wesson can speak if need be. I could look down the bar and into the kitchen too. The hash slinger was warming up back there and pretty soon he'd be singing an aria for us, follow?


Missy brought Bull Run for everyone and poured me and Dolly-girl a cuppa. Slim and Tootsie were flying thanks to Stumptown Roasters in their part of town, over on the other side of the river. We gave the whadda-ya-wants the once-over and filled Missy in on what was gonna hit our spots. Dolly-girl saluted the Queen and ordered the whole nine yards. Slim wanted them wrecked with murphys and Noah's boy--the very same I'd had the last time I'd waddled through the door. Tootsie had him flop a couple between whiskey with Macon's best. Me, I went Adam & Eve on Alabama ice cream.


Missy sang our song to the hash slinger and then did the what's-gonna-scratch-your-back with a couple new tables that had come through the door. The place was filling up. Good thing about birdseed is that it never takes long before the feedbags are full and ready to tie on. Dolly-girl's full breakfast was stacked high and had everything any Englishman could think of. Tootsie's cackle-in-the-middle was more than billed and filled the order. My Alabama ice cream was just the way I like it--baked like a cake and yellow. They can keep that white soup south of the Mason & Dixon as far as I'm concerned.

Murmurs took the place of chatter as we all dug in. Four smiling faces pushed back from the table when we'd had what we'd come for. A filled-up foursome headed out the door with a nod to Missy. I said it before, I'll say it again--If you've got a hankering for cackleberries done just right, Fats will put you in Fat City. Phat!