Thursday, December 30, 2010

A Thursday Afternoon in Portland: Let's Go to the Radio Room!

Before noon, the blower sparked. It was Angela, the chiquita that runs the eatery down at the Radio Room, a joint me and Dolly-girl have been frequenting some, but not as frequently as we ought to frequent the joint. "Yallow?" "Fiora, is this Fiora D'Mestiere?" "That's who pays the phone bills. What's it?" "Angela. Radio Room. Haven't made yours acquaintances yet, but Jack gets a coffee drink on the house for having the best 'I'm gonna do it different next year, honest I am.'" "Sounds good. We were hoping to take shank's mare out for a little spin, so we'll see you in a bit. But, I've got an Edison above my head that tells me I'll be sipping the java--Old Mister Sol is over the yardarm and almost under it again. Jack will be looking for something a little different than a dose of beans if you get my drift." "Like snow in New York City. Seeya."

We hoofed it down there. The sign outside didn't lie, especially once my Dolly-girl made her entrance. There wasn't a wave in the place that matched hers. I told her so in her ear and she told me to behave. She likes it when I tell her that, though.

Seeing as how it was the happy hour, we decided to have a couple cold ones to go with the hot one and tie on a feedbag. I'm glad we did. You've heard me on this broadsheet extol the virtues of the birdseed at Radio Room. Well, Radio Room is not just for breakfast. We took a look at the whaddayawant and picked out a burger, some Radio Radio Cakes, and a bale of cowfeed. Dolly-girl made good on the free cuppa and then washed it down with a dose of the Champagne of Bottled Brewski, served in a, you-may-a-guessed-it, one of them glasses for bubbly. I totally dominated an IPA and then took a paler trip crosstown.

The feedbags found their way to us and we tied them on. Nothing at all wrong with what they load into them for you at a price that's fairer than a line drive to center field. A grilled cheese burger with ripe tomatos, wherever they came from. Mascarpone polenta cakes on a paprika cream--a sort of polenta paprikash! And the salad was yelling "Et tu Brutus?" We strolled out for about a Hamilton each--not bad considering the beers. I dropped Abe on top to keep Missy smiling and we headed out into the Stumptown cold. "Colder than a bad girl's heart," muttered Dolly-girl. Could be, but the Radio Room is always worth the walk.

Oh, what's this Face thing everyone talks about? Angela said to check them here.

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