A Beautiful Afternoon in Portland: Stopping for a Burger at the Stop and Go Burger

Dolly-girl was at the jawbones dealing with, as she calls it, dental destiny, so me and Books decided to talk with some people around town that needed talking with. It was just about an hour after the Stumptown noon whistle blew, so it was a good time to stop by the Stop & Go Burger go for a little fill-me-up. Books passed.

Stop & Go is a joint on our side of the river, but a ways from where me and Dolly-girl set the brake. The hashslinger/Missy was in the little silver shed that Stop & Go calls everything-we-got, which isn't quite true since they have a covered area with a few tables where we could enjoy the summer day, watch Stumptown motor by, and eat a Prince burger. Yep, the whaddaya-want was a royal offering, starting with Prince, then Queen, ...OK, I'm guessing you follow.




I settled on the Prince with yellow paint and a hemorrhage, pucker-ups, wax, and a rose pinned on. The sign said "Fresh Grilled" and the joint lived up to the billing. Me and Books rested our tails while hash/Missy burned one. She yelled out, "Yours is up, Jack", which I could guess since, being 45 minutes past the second whistle, nobody else was around. I work what you call a flexible schedule, follow? Anyway, Harry of Wales arrived in a little paper sack, on a piece of brown paper, on a plastic tray. Cute, Dolly-girl and Kitty would be giving the Stop & Go a D minus in the Save-the-Earth column. Especially after they saw that on top of the paper and inside the sack, the Prince was in a little paper cup thing...




The Prince looked like advertised and I dug in. Books looked over and gave me the whaddaya-think? "As good as one of those fast-food places for twice the price," is what I thought. But then it wasn't that fast, which isn't all bad, and I'm thinking the stockholders were doing the grilling. With me? Stop & Go won't stop you in your tracks, but I'd give it a go.

Oh, you won't find poutine...it's not that upscale a joint.

A Cloudy August Afternoon in Portland: A Visit to Powell's City of Books, Jake's Happy Hour, and Bailey's Taproom

The Clipper touched down at Stumptown Field right on time. I heard the announcement, "Now arriving, Clipper 461 from Detroit, Milwaukee, the twin cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul, Rapid City, and Boise." I stood on my toes to look over the crowd and saw Books as he stepped off the aeroplane. Books, or Libretto D'Mestiere, was here to visit us and we'd been looking forward to it. Dolly-girl named him Libretto because she said he was like a book of lyrics, but "Books" was more to his liking and was a pretty accurate description of his favorite activity, not to mention the way he earned a buck--balancing and making, and not necessarily in that order, if you get me. We shook hands, hugged, and he said, "How soon can we set the brake at Powells?" There was no getting around the fact that me and Dolly-girl weren't the only draw in Stumptown--there was The City of Books, too.

"Soon as you want to," came out of my mouth which brought a "Well, how about now?" "On it. Let's pick up Dolly-girl." We did and a few minutes later we were on the other side of the river at a place Dolly-girl calls a second home. Books and Dolly-girl disappeared inside while I kept my eye out for you-know-who. This is a part of Stumptown where the bad and the good share one thing, a love of books, but that doesn't necessarily mean that the Trouble Brothers drop their attitudes at the door. I took up a spot on the corner and did my civic duty, the sorta Neighborhood Watch a neighborhood like this one needs but doesn't get often enough. After all, some of the business may be dull*, but the sun doesn't set on shenanigans in this part of town.


* It's true, an architecture firm named Dull Olson Weekes Architects. Wouldn't you change your name if it were Dull, particularly if you were an architect?

A couple hours later, after Ambassador Franklin and General Grant shook hands with a cashier in the City of Books, Books and Dolly-girl found me at my lamppost. "Lookin' for your keys, Jack?" "You know what I'm up to Dolly-girl and one of these days you'll be the better for it, too." She liked to kid me about how serious I took serious business, especially when business was serious. I knew she was kidding, but every once-in-a-while it put a burr under my saddle, follow? Anyhow, I knew they'd by ready to put on the feedbag after all that perusing.


"Jake's?" Dolly-girl pushed the wave back and smiled. "It's ringing my bell, how about you Books?" "Never been there, willing to try." We got on shank's mare and headed over there. It wasn't far. Jake's is a serious seafood joint and a fixture around Stumptown. It was Happy Hour, which in Stumptown means regular prices on the whaddaya-drinkin' and almost free on the whaddaya-want. That was hitting our spot.



We walked in. The place was crowded even though it was only the middle of the afternoon. Jake's is a place business--and some of it shady--gets done; you could tell that from the pictures hanging on the wall. The missys were dressed in white jackets or black skirts depending, follow? They were buzzing around the place like yellow jackets on fresh grilled albacore. Our Missy brought us the whaddaya-wants, Bull Run all around, and an attitude. "Ready to roll? Remember, the plates are big." We were. We didn't.











Books was ready for a cold one, "Float me an amber down Gastineau Channel." "North to it." "The heavy one that's been to the Sub-continent and back for me." "Terminal Gravity IPA, it's yours. You, miss?" "Czech it, something local, bring me the HUB lager." "Czech? Check." Missy knew her game.

We gave the whaddaya-want the twice over. There's always a temptation to order like it's going to be some nibble in a cup like they pass out at the A&P on Saturday. Mark us tempted and tried.


Missy was back with the brew. "What'll it be for youse?" "Give us a couple orders of flattened left hook, some rings of the deep, an order of the southern murphies, and a couple seaweed wraps and dunk em'. Oh, throw in the dirty dishes, too." Missy rolled her eyes and puffed out her cheeks, doing an imitation of us by the time the big had was on the six. We settled it and nursed the pints.




Missy and a helper showed up with the food. "Must be some mistake--we ordered Happy Hour feedbags." Missy rolled her eyes. "Salmon cakes, calamari, sweet potato fries, pot stickers, and the tempura sushi. Now, I told youse the plates were big--eat up and make me proud. Do it again on the malties?" "Sure, give me a Kolsch from over the hills. Books will have a Laurelhurst, and wash it out." "Right, a Double Mountain and a pale ale. Yours?" Dolly-girl gulped and passed.

She was back in a flash with the one-more-times while we did our best to get to the bottom of the feed bags. We almost made it but ended up giving the rest of the rings of the deep to Birthday Girl and a pal-o-mine of hers at the next table. "We just hang around here, nurse a beer, and wait for people to leave--there's always oats in the bottom of the bag..." "Check. Happy day."


We rolled out the door and onto the street. Funny how when you stand up, two things happen. Feed settles and good ideas rise right to the top. "How about we finish this festa off with a trip to Baileys?" "Gads, Jack. You can't be serious. How can you possibly think about heading over there after this?" A look through the wave told me I was going to have to do some convincing on this one. "Yeah, Dolly-girl, but Books hasn't been there and they don't have places like Bailey's back where he sets his brake and who knows if we'll get back to this side of the river and, and.." Another shot through the wave and I knew I had her. "It'll be exercise. OK." We headed over. It wasn't far. The taproom was hoppin' what with it being Friday afternoon. A lot of people who started the week asleep were waking up now and giving themselves a pat on the back for making it through another one. We slid in and joined them. Missy poured us a taster of Captured by Porches Invasive Species, Lucky Lab Superdog, Fanno Creek IPA, Ninkasi Sleigh'r, and cask-conditioned Lagunitus Dogtown Pale.

Dolly-girl was right. We drank them down and waddled on back to our side of Stumptown. A grand day out!

A Beautiful Evening in Portland: National Night Out and a Festa at Good Neighbor Pizza

The blower sparked. I was in the middle of thinking about a case that needed some serious thinking. One Rocky Fell threw my way. Someone snatched a fur from a chiquita banana down The Valley and he figured it might've ended up in Stumptown. I was on it. I thought about letting Thelma get the blower, but by then my train of thought was on a Union Pacific siding across from Lupita's down in Woodburn. "D'Mestiere Investigations. Go." Dolly-girl. "Jack, National Night Out. Kitty's on it. I gotta go read some verses to people who need to be versed. I'll meet you there. Follow?" "OK, we'll be at Good Neighbor for a cold one by the time you get back to our side of the river." Click. Dolly-girl wasn't much for chit-chat once the plans were laid.

Kitty and I perambulated over to Woodlawn Park and did the once around on what was happening there. It was a slow night. A few hawkers were set up, trying to pedal either BBQ or blood pressure screenings. Didn't seem to me like either one did much for the other's business. Well, maybe a good shot of BBQ would give those screeners something to look at. A small crowd was gathering to watch The Wiz--we passed.

We headed on over to Good Neighbor, a joint that makes a good pizza pie and is known to have some cold ones to wash it down with. Me and Dolly-girl have them bring it by where we set the brake from time to time, and Kitty likes to stop in the joint on the way home from her 9 to 5 and wash the dust out of her mouth, if you know what I mean.






It was a nice night to be out. Old Mister was feeling good on our backs and people were in the sort of mood that means the pop you hear is from a bottle of suds preparing to head downtown rather than from some punk's heater. We took a table outside, near the street, where I could keep any eye out for trouble just in case it decided to get up, scratch its butt, and start something. Like I say, I wasn't expecting it, but when you're in a place that sells Old German for a clam a can, you never know when some hot head full of cold brew is going to think he might just have some of what he calls fun but what the Stumptown Police Bureau calls felony.




Missy was working the joint by himself. Me and Kitty nursed a Walking Man and a Bull Run waiting for Dolly-girl and then decided to go ahead and get us a festa on a tile--run it through the garden and pin a rose on it. Oh, and give some zeppelin a ride through the oven too. "On it. Do it again?" "Never think twice." Kitty was thirsty. Missy was back in a while with a round and a little while later with a pie that made him look like he knew what he was up to. He makes the sauce, starting with seeds and soil, so it may take a while to get the feed bag, but when it comes, it's one of the best in Stumptown to my way of thinking. Dolly-girl's roadster squealed to a stop, she set the brake, hopped out, and got there just in time to shoot a look through the wave and grab a slice. Purrs from the two chiquitas told me that Good Neighbor was just the neighbor they were hoping to run into.


We settled up. It was a breeze, mostly 'cause Kitty paid, "I owe you from the other night, it's on me", but the damage wasn't much considering a couple of beers each and the festa. A chiquita's bag on the bar said it all--there's plenty of reasons to be a Good Neighbor...

A Quick Trip To Ashland: The Oregon Shakespeare Festival

Doorbell. Then "Telegram." Dolly-girl opened up, tipped the kid, and took the yellow envelope. "Javier. We're on for the weekend. He booked us into the Blue Moon--that OK with you Jack?". It was. Dolly-girl and me like to take in the Oregon Shakespeare Festival. Dolly-girl likes The Bard--got interested when she was at finishing school--so at least once a year, we pack up the roadster and head south from Stumptown to see what there is to see on the stage. Mostly they put on the old ones, but every once in a while they come up with something the guy just wrote. I ask Dolly-girl about whosis, like how come I never hear him interviewed on the Zenith, but she just laughs at me. I told her he sure isn't from our side of the river, I know that from the words he uses. That got me an "Are you serious" though the wave. Who knows, but I know that I never learned about any guy named Bard when I was studying up for my private ticket. And I don't know what this festival has to do with fishing tackle.

Javier Boleyn is a pal-o-mine of Dolly-girl's from back before I knew her. They were in the same business back then and met learning to be bookies. Good thing I met her. You just can't tell where making book is going to land you. Javier is still in the business after all these years, but he lives in Frisco now. Claims to like the fog. Even though there's been big advances in what some call technology, Javier is old-fashioned about some things--telegrams, for instance--instead of just picking up the blower. Go figure. Anyway, he's an all-the-worlds-a-stage sort of guy so he meets up with us down south, or up north if you're looking at the world from where he sets his brake.





The day broke, we packed the roadster, and headed out. Kitty was keeping an eye on our joint for us in case someone I'd had my eye on decided to pay a visit while we weren't looking. We meandered south, stopped for an hour where I could dial a blower and talk with some people that needed talking with, and ended up at the air field just in time to see Javier's clipper touch down. He stepped out, turned and waved to the stewardess, and walked across the tarmac, valise in hand. Dolly-girl ran to meet him (she's like a kid at Christmas when it's time to start trading barbs about this guy Bard with Javier). They started doing their catching up on what needed caught up on while I pulled the roadster around. We loaded Javier's trunk and headed to the Blue Moon, one of those what you used to call Tourist Houses but now people call them beeandbees for some reason. Anyway, this one's a nice place to stay. It's got art on the walls and there's always some sort of snack. Dolly-girl tells me it's fresh baked pastries. I guess. Dean--he's in charge--even gives you birdseed in the morning. You don't get a whaddaya-want, you take-what-comes-out-the-door, but you don't have to pay or leave him a tip or nothing. Go figure.








Dean told us birdseed would be on the table at nine sharp but that we'd be able to get a couple cuppas earlier than that and it's a good thing because if Dolly-girl doesn't get her blondie by punch-in time, she's looking for my heater and a chance to light a fire under someone's schedule. Not many things set her off, but waiting for joe to show is one of them.



Javier and Dolly-girl picked some seats that left me at the end with my back to the wall. She knows what I like in a seat: if trouble's joining us for a sit-down, I want to be the one who see it set its brake and walk in the door. Everybody else staying at the Blue Moon showed up too and I listened to people chewing the fat while they waited for the hash slinger to load up the feedbags. Dean started bringing plates out and telling us what was on them.


I'll tell you, this was no birdseed joint like me and Dolly-girl go to, you know, the places with your-call cackleberries--wrecked, flopped, Adam and Eve on a raft--and Noah's boy in the alley. No, Dean said we were getting a fritater, but the murphies looked baked to me. He said the fritater was eh-talian (he pronounced it like Dolly-girl does) but I'm telling you, Mama D'Mestiere never put nothing that looked like this in our feedbags, so I'm guessing it's one of those things like Chef Boyardee makes. It looked real pretty and Dolly-girl and Javier gave it the eyeball and dug in.


It was good alright and pretty soon 16 jaws quit jawing and started doing the up-and-down, tending to the business they were made for. Dean said everything was fresh from the garden, but I didn't hear any cackles, so I'm guessing if I'd said anything Dolly-girl would have shot me a "Suspend reality, Jack" through the wave so I kept my yap lined up on the food. I could taste tomatoes and basil and oregano and Parma's wax on the top and I'll take Dean's word for it having hen fruit. Speaking of Eve's goof, there was a big plate of it and it went along like a Sunday drive with the fritater.


We had some time to kill before we had to load the roadster and head north, so we saddled up shank's mare and headed into town for a look see. Ashland ain't no Stumptown in my book. There were people learning a goofy dance near the place where we'd seen Henry VIII, one of those stories by the Bard guy, the night before. It was a good enough yarn about this Henry guy (never did get the vee-eye-eye-eye part) who had a perfectly good chiquita banana, but decided he wanted a different one from a newer bunch so he dumped her and took up with the new one. Nothing new in that story, at least not around Stumptown. Maybe Ashland is different.


Yeah, well it is different. One of the watering holes claims to specialize in drinking chocolate. That would get you some raised eyebrows on our side of the river, I'll tell you. We're more of a shot-and-beer town than a kiss-and- marshmallow place. Dolly-girl and Javier were talking the odds of this joint lasting. They decided: not good.









Javier spied a bookie joint and Dolly-girl's greenies lit up. "I'd like to lay off a little in this town before we hit the road, let's see if they got a couple numbers I've been wanting." They had a lot, but not the horse she was looking to bet, I guess. She finally found some cards to play and that put her teeth in front of her lips. Something about independence. I didn't catch everything she and Javier were yapping about.
















I saw this one but decided against it





Anyway, it was time for us to head back to Stumptown; Javier was staying on. I think he was trying to meet that guy Bard. Maybe get his autograph, who knows. If you ask me, he should take him shopping, update his clothes, follow? Then, teach the guy how to write like people talk. He'll never pass what they call the test of time if he can't do that much...

Illustration credit Martin Droeshout