An Afternoon in Portland: Walking Across Town

Portland is full of food carts--trailers that are located in downtown parking lots and offer all ilks of food. Mexican, Thai, Vietnamese, Czech, Polish, Middleastern, Greek, Indian, Chinese, Japanese, why there's even a place that does "American."

Some call them Roach Coaches, but to tell the truth, it's some of the finest lunch food in Portland. I call Tabor--the Czech food--the Czech Wagon, get it? Like the Chuck wagon...And Thai Basil, well, read the review.



One nationality is missing and it's a niche that needs filling so badly I can't believe it will be long. Where are our Neighbours to the North. Or as Richard would say, "The lads up the line are missin' a big chance there, don't ya know, eh?" Recently, Beaver Tails were featured on a popular blog. But Portland has no poutine. Pas de poutine, eh? There claims to be a place that serves poutine, but it's the Belgian fry cart and they offer a vegan poutine. Please...s'il vous plait...vegan poutine?




Now, there's a food cart for sale in Portland. If ever a business chance existed in an economy gone awry, it's to sell fries, covered with gravy, salt, and cheese curds to a epidemically-overweight population (including yours truly). "I'll have the sausage poutine special please, and add a Lipator if you will...see if you can get it from Canada--it's cheaper up dare..."

A Sunday Evening in Portland: Dinner at Authentica

Dolly-girl and me usually stick pretty close to home on Sunday--it's the day that the blower goes off and I'm not answering. We get up, put the percolator on the Tappan, maybe sizzle up some Mr. Mayer in the Grillavator, flop a couple for me and wreck two for Dolly-girl. We peruse the broadsheets, I work a Rex Parker or two, and then we go out on shank's mare with no particular anywhere in mind. Of course, it's not so relaxed that we don't take Messrs. Smith&Wesson on the trip. But this Sunday was special.




We had struck up a friendship with a young betty, used to live across the street from us. She's been in Stumptown for about a year, looking for work in a time that work's hard to come by. She's been hustling tips as a Missy in a local bread mill, but been on the lookout for better times. Turns out I tipped off a tipster who passed the word that AC was OK. The tip hit paydirt for AC and she's headed up to the Emerald City, you know, the place where they burn the java and might have been known for grunge if Neil had been there. Anyway, the kid's on her way. We'll miss her, but she's only a couple hours away on the Union Pacific. Besides, she's leaving pals-o-hers behind down here. We'll see AC southbound again.


But, the short and long of it is that AC's old lady was in from The Coast--yep, that Coast where they call The Coast The Shore--and they were looking for some good company, some great food, and some cold wine. They called Saturday and they called the right exchange. A quick talk-it-over and we settled on Authentica, a Mexican joint in Gourmet Gulch over in the flat part of town. Let me tell you, this ain't no Taco Bell. Dolly-girl and me had been there once before and we left feeling south of some border other than Stumptown and the River.

The place was close to empty when we came through the door. I'd made the call for a table and we were right on time. Missy put us in the back, up against the bar that didn't look like it was going to see any bust-ups this night, but hey, if trouble didn't prowl Stumptown, neither would I, and Dolly-girl would be selling flowers in Pioneer Courthouse Square. The hashslinger and his helpers were working the range in a corner of the room, with the we're-getting-it-ready in a room behind them.


We were looking at the whadda-ya-drinkin' when AC and the Lady from The Coast walked in. If she had Stumptown written on her, someone had erased it. We did the how-do-ya-dos and hit it off over some cold skidrow for the girls and an agave cocktail--follow?--for me. We picked a couple let's-get-starteds, like the swimmers-in-sour and some Shell Oils. We looked at the whadda-ya-want while Missy gave us the run down on the hashslinger's what-I'm-feeling-like-cookings. We needed time to scratch our lids.


Missy served the start-ups up pronto. "Here's the ceviche and the scallops--don't stab yourselves getting to 'em." She knew what she left us was going to hit spots, and she could see the spots in our eyes. "It's a slow night and youse are flappin' yer maws--give me the high sign when you want me back." Can't beat a Missy like that.





We got the long-distance-information from AC and the other three of us were doing the up and down. This kid is on her way. I caught Missy's eye in what was now a room three quarters full of drink drinkers and hash hounds. "What's yours?" she started with The Coast, moved to AC, then Dolly-girl, then me. "Carnitas. Double it." Dolly-girl was in the February spirit: "Give me the clucker swimming with Walt Whitman and Uncle Ben." I settled on the porker from the bush, with cook-em-slow bullets in the alley. "Got it." We went back to the chatter.

Missy brought the eats and the chat left the chatter. The carnitas must have been a hit seeing the smiles on the sun-rise side of the table. I asked Dolly-girl if the clucker crowed and got a look, wave of hair in the face, and her chew stopped mid-way. "Ya think?-what's not to like about mo-lei?" She went back to it. I was looking at three of the prettiest chops I'd ever seen since I went to a Supremes concert in the Motor City. "Wild Boar," Missy told me, "with a nice chile sauce and beans." "Yes, ma'am..."


"Lemon tart--that's it, that's my favorite." Missy came back to clean up and straight talk the girls into some make-it-a-night. "The rest are good, but this ain't no toaster tart, follow? Give it a try." They did. She was right. She'd been right all night.


Missy dropped the damage and quick as a whistle, The Coast picked it up. "It's on me--thanks for keeping an eye on the kid." I started to negotiate, but I'd been in these kinds of talks before. It's all talk and no listen. "Thanks, you shouldn't have." Best let it lie and wait for another day.

We said our see-yas and good-lucks, and headed down the street. Dolly-girl ran her arm through the hook of my elbow, past the heater jammed in my belt, and pulled close. "Authentica," she purred, "the real thing." You got that right, Dolly-girl. We walked home, feeling south of some border other than Stumptown and the River...

A Beautiful Evening in Portland: Dinner at DOC

I was between meetings with some Can-You-Help-Mes when my blower went off. Dolly-girl. “It’s our anniversary,” she purred. I panicked. “Ah-a-a” “It’s been one year in our dream cottage. Let’s celebrate!” Whew, I knew it wasn't that anniversary! “Sure, I remember, Dolly-girl.” Who could forget carrying all her damned books upstairs and then downstairs and downstairs and then upstairs. “Whatever you say. Pick a place. I'm there." I left business unfinished and headed home.

Dolly-girl was on her fifth or sixth redux of the once-over on a joint over in Gourmet Gulch. Said its name was DOC. “You mean like Doc’s Diner up in Whitehorse?” She and me had had a joe and a plate of blowout patches up there once-upon-a-time when I was chasing someone-who’d-gone-south-on-a-debt north. “No, like ‘Denominazione di Origine Controllata’, it’s about wine. It’s Ehtalian.” Dolly-girl is real good with words and such—she tells me Eye-talian is supposed to have a "soft-eye". I tell her the only soft eyes I see are hers. That gets me a smile and a wave of hair over the face, know what I mean?

We perambulated over to DOC, a small store-front looking place on the northeast side of Stumptown—30th at Killingsworth. I looked in the window and thought, what the—you go in through the kitchen! We walked in and I gave it the wall-to-wall. There was something off, but what was it? It smelled like heaven might if heaven's a class joint. It looked like what it claimed to be, a trattoria, narrow room with a few sit-downs sporting linen, but a long table on the side—just wood—for walk-ins. Low light, but no place for trouble to pop up that you couldn’t pop it. The hashslinger and his helper were working the range like rodeo cowboys on the right and the dishman was to the left. No chiquitas on this crew. What seemed to be the one and only soup jockey, who goes by the name Austin, gave us a nod and a what’s up. “Dolly-girl for 7. We’re early,” Dolly-girl told him. “No problem there, come on in.”

Missy put us at a table in the back—I couldn’t have picked it better if we’d had the run of the place. We sat down. He brought us some Bull Run and asked if we had something else in mind when it came to drinks. We did. The print on the whadda-ya-drinking was too fine for me and besides, there were dozens of brown bags and I have a hard time remembering my address. But it didn’t make a nevermind. Missy squatted down by the table and asked us what we liked. He got up, brought over a couple bottles. “Try these. If they don’t work, I’ll try again” He musta been a good listener, ‘cause the wine he poured hit the spots we were aiming at, you follow?

The whadda-ya-want is small, like it’s supposed to be in a joint like this. But even with small, the choice was tough. We sent Missy away for the sheaves and the martinis-hold-the-gin opener while we scratched our lids. I could tell Dolly-girl was headed for the rice-a-roni, one of her favorites. The fish were swimming towards me—Lucky Stars on the first take and Ferdinand and Cantharellus for the follow-up. Missy comes back and sets down the pane e olive. We talk blue plates. “Yeah, the sardines are good, but I wouldn’t miss the veal with pancetta and bread crumbs.” “Sounds like our song,” I said and Dolly-girl gave it the up and down.

We said here’s-looking-at-you with our skid row and set into the bread and olives. No doubt about it, these eats were speaking to us, and in the old-world way. The olives and the oil they were in would take you back to Italy like Dean Martin on a Zenith, capiche? Missy brought the sardines and veal. These Lucky Stars had never seen a can, I’ll tell you, and instead of mustard and oil, they were lazing around on some murphies and pepos. The youngster was fried up with day-old sheaves and bacon and couldn’t be beat.

Missy came back with round two and gave us the nod on some different skid row. “Dolly-girl, yours was the risotto with artichoke and pancetta, and it’s black cod with yellowfoot mushrooms and lemon for you, pal-o-mine. Drink these." That hashslinger's got it, I'll tell you. The Ferdinand was done just right and was sea salty. The rice-a-roni left Dolly-girl's eyes spinning. She saved room and finished the meal with something sweeter than me.

Just short of three Grants paid what we owed plus our thanks-very-much for Missy and the boys. We walked into the night with me still musing about what was off. Must have been remains of the day ‘cause there’s sure nothing off at DOC, follow pal-o-mine?

A Foggy, Sunny, Rainy Afternoon in Portland: A Visit to a Museum

It's been quite some time since Nancy and I spent time in a museum together--we seem to end up at the Portland Art Museum on our own, so I guess our last joint outing was back in May in Venezia. Today seemed like a day to check out a unique gallery in Southeast Portland that she'd read about. After a couple cups of joe, a brunch of leftovers, and some chores around the house, we headed out to SE 24th and Burnside. Destination, The Velveteria


The genre is, well you guessed it, velvet. Specifically, most of the collection is comprised of paintings on velvet, primarily black, but other colors as well. This medium has been around for some time and I, to-this-day, regret that I never bought the big painting of The Duke as Rooster Cogburn on black velvet that used to be on sale periodically at the Kwik-Fill on the corner of the Elmira Road and the Spencer Road in Ithaca. I missed the opportunity while I was single back in the early 90s--most women seem to appreciate black velvet paintings in "galleries", but not in the home.

While most of the collection is paint on a canvas of velvet, there are other pieces as well, particularly featuring religious items (read Catholic kitsch), shells, small lights, and plaster bases. My favorite item on display was the Virgin Mary crafted of plaster and covered in a very pink velvet, similar to the color in the photo to the left. I don't have a photo of the artwork itself as I respected the rules--No Photos--although Caren, the curator/owner told us we were free to take pictures in the lobby and we could take one picture of each of us in the museum. Here's Nancy in the religious section.









The lobby offered a nice selection of interesting artworks including a stuffed animal, some sort of cat, but you know, plush, not a real stuffed cat--wearing a purple velvet hat. Other features were the ever popular Last Supper on Velvet and The King, Elvis Presley. Caren told us that they were very careful when it came to images of The King since those Presley people are constantly on the lookout for unlicensed uses of his image. The same may be true for Princess Diana as her image was absent, while those of Michael Jackson, Dr. Martin Luther King, Isaac Hayes, Mr. T, Muhammad Ali, The Beatles, all four of The Three Stooges, Dog Bounty Hunter and his wife, Beth, Captain Kirk, Mr. Spock, Jimi Hendrix, Timothy Leary, and a whole host of others were prominently featured. A corner features a few presidents--Ronald Reagan, Barack Obama, and a truly black velvet president, Richard Nixon. There is also a black light room that should appeal to dope fiends, as my father used to call them.

A special section, near the back of the gallery is a, how shall I put it, Boob Apse--an area of the museum filled with paintings on velvet of women with prominent breasts on full display, if you know what I mean.

So, if you have a chance, check it out. It's certainly worth every bit of the $5 admission charge. Caren is as knowledgeable as one can be, I think, about her specialty, and you also get to see The Big Boy on velvet! As was pointed out in Austin Powers, Man of Mystery, "In many ways, Bob's Big Boy never left, sir. He's always offered the same high-quality meals at competitive prices. " But not on velvet!

A Saturday Night in Portland: Dinner at Beast Restaurant

Dolly-girl was just dishing up the soup a week ago when the blower went off. She took the call. It was a chiquita I used to work with when I was doing investigations, down in the valley, before we moved to Stumptown. Turns out the chiquita--Tootsie--and her old man, Slim, were planning a weekend in our fair city and they were looking for a night out on the town and some relief from the valley hash houses. Stumptown's the place for that, know what I mean.



Happens that Tootsie and Slim were bringing some others along, a couple of nice kids, one of them Tootsie's niece, just moved here from The Great White North. The other kid's an old friend of the family, been a fan of hash slinging since he was a squirt. Slim had a joint called Beast in mind, not far from the Cup and Saucer. The place had been getting a lot of good ink in the broadsheets, so we figured it's worth a try. Dolly-girl was worried--places called things like Beast tend to be a little heavy on the farm animals and a little light on the farm--but she's a game chiquita so she tossed her hat in the ring.


We met at our place and tossed down a couple of olive baths before dinner. Dolly-girl had a spritz. Gin, whether it comes from a bathtub or a bottle, isn't her cuppa. Being it was a nice night, we rode shank's mare and arrived with some cold cash ready for some hot food--Beast don't come cheap, follow?





Beast is one of those new-fangled joints that's supposed to be like an old-fangled joint, or maybe one of them Frenchie farm places, the kind where the hash slingers are in the room with you, or maybe you're eating in the kitchen. A couple a long tables and 20 chairs is all they got. The place makes a guy like me jittery--loud and dark, no juke box, but some one or thing calling the shots on the 45s--but I settled into a too-small chair as near to the back door as I could get, where I could keep an eye on the room and the street. I'd never hear someone behind me. No whadda-ya-wants--everybody gets the same eats, like being in the can, except the big guys can't take your grits.


The boss slinger, a chiquita with a reputation around Stumptown, was working at the counter, loading up the syracuse with the start-ups--somebody said they call it "plating"--and pouring soup into bowls. The sous slinger was on her left, and the Missys were moving around the room with the Bull Run and taking drink orders. We were already into it--Slim's got old habits and put the bottle in the sack on the table when we walked in. He eyeballed our Missy, a medium sized guy who seemed to know his way around a cork screw. He nodded and in a couple we had some skid row in our glasses. Turns out we ordered a bottle from Missy later, frog-made that hit the spot.




The soup was great, a cabbage number, but I'll tell you, this cabbage didn't come out of a kraut can. A little goose liver had fallen into it and Missy said there were some shreds of truffle, but it that didn't taste anything like those chocolates I picked up for Dolly-girl when she had her shorts in a knot that time, remember? Nah, it was Oregon white truffle, Tuber gibbosum or it might have been oregonense, I didn't get a look at the peridium. Most people don't know I used to teach mycology--another life, another story-- but I keep tabs on my old friends in the business, they just published a book...


Next out was some little snacks, arranged around like a clock. They had lots of names, which I can't remember 'cause my French ends at "soup on the side". There was some salami, a cracker with some chopped chicken liver on it, a little piece of toast with meat and a bird's egg, both raw, some pork meatloaf, and a thing that looked like candy, but was more goose liver. There was some slaw in the alley, supposed to help you get from one taste to the next, Missy said. I worked my way from noon to midnight, and punched out--a regular sort of day.

Missy cleaned up our plates and brought out dinner, a slice of pork on some money with a little squash "tartlet". Now, I'll tell you, this slinger has got one different idea of what a tartlet is, with me on that? The squealer--came from a place called Tails and Trotters; cute--was tasty alright, sitting on some sauce made out of French's. Missy told us it was going to taste like hazel nuts (we call them filberts) 'cause before the everlasting, they rode their trotters into a hazelnut orchard and chowed down. Have to say, I didn't taste their Last Supper, so I'm guessing they were trying to take it on the lam and beat the scalding pot.

The cowfeed was next, a good pile of it too. Came from someplace down in the valley that Tootsie and Slim knew of and they gave it the he's-ok so we chewed it down. Usually I like my Kraft in the alley, but the slinger had already put in on the bale and she was giving the stinkeye to anyone who wanted anything different. I shut up and chewed.




While we were eating I saw the slinger cutting up some wax and figured she must have been getting ready to burn a couple high and dry for the staff--they were working pretty hard. But instead, Missy brought us a plate with a couple kinds of wax, a couple nuts, and some little cookie kinda things. I shot Dolly-girl a glance that said, this ain't the sorta joint that we walk into. It's not that we don't take in some good spots--me and her's been all over Stumptown and eaten in all the big names. And once we took a trip, nevermind.

A slice of cake with some whipped cream topped it off. While the cake was on the table, the slinger pulled out an envelope and started doing the payroll. You see it all when you eat in the kitchen. The Missys were gathered around, getting their cut for the week while we polished of the twinkie. We dropped a c-note and a half for our share and headed out the door. Slim and Tootsie, Dolly-girl and me, all thinking, yeah, it was OK, we had some laughs, but what's the fuss. A few snow flakes fell as we pulled up our collars and headed for home, leaving the Beast behind.

A Saturday Nootime in Portland: Lunch at the Cup and Saucer

Right around when the noon whistle went off, Dolly-girl and me perambulated over to one of her spots, a not-a-greasy spoon half-diner over on Killingsworth at 30th, what people in the heights of Stumptown call Gourmet Gulch, but what people on our side of the river call home. It doesn't make it as a greasy spoon 'cause they spend a little too much time cooking for the grazers and wax snappers, and it's not a diner, 'cause it's only open when trouble's asleep--know what I mean--8 in the morning 'til an hour before cocktails.


We weren't the only ones who had a taste for the breakfast scrambles and blue plates; I could see that by the line out the door when we walked up. I backed up against the wall under the sign and scanned the scene while Dolly-girl went in to talk to her Missy friend and see how long we'd be looking at the walls. Not long it turned out as a bunch of the egg and bacon crowd were on the south end of java and heading out to wherever Saturday was going to take them. Ten minutes under the sign did it and we slid into a table in the upper room.

The place was filled with mostly 20 and 30-somethings. What is it with knit caps with ears? Dolly-girl spied some strange ones, commented on the size and number of piercings, and joked about maybe she'd ought to have one of those hats. But I knew she was pulling my leg, 'cause she likes that wave in the eye look too much, know what I mean? Being that I like to use a Kodak, I noticed that there were some "interesting" pictures on the walls, snaps of far away places, but mostly the Brownie sort of shots, including some snapshots taped to the wall. Just scenery so I figured the clicker to be some sort of play-boy rather than a gum-shoe on a case. A few were in cheap frames, for sale. $20. Note to self, if the trouble business goes south, there may be some options, you with me...

Missy brought the whadda-ya-wants and a couple Bull Runs. "Java?" I shook my head, but Dolly-girl ordered a blonde. It came in a mug with a spoon--nice touch--but I noticed, and looked around to be sure, that there wasn't a saucer in sight. "What's with the name?" I asked Dolly-girl, "Why not Mug and Spoon?" She eyed me over the blonde and through the wave and shook her head. She tells me I need to suspend reality, but hey, reality is what I do.



"What'll it be, Dolly-girl?" So it is on her trapline. "Give me the garden on the sheaves and toast it. Make sure there's a slice of California green on there. Sweet potato fries in the alley" "Yours?" "Melt a Charlie on whiskey with wax, and throw some cowfeed and a love apple on it. And I'll take the potage sur la côté." "You got it, Frenchie." Missy headed for the kitchen.

Things were hoppin' back there and the hash slingers were extra busy keeping the granola orders separate from the real food. Have to say that tofu never seemed like real breakfast eats to me--I mean it doesn't come in shells, you don't peel it, and after you cook it, it's less slippery than when you started. Yeah, I eat the stuff when Dolly-girl gets on one of her far eastern healthy kicks, but really? For breakfast?


Missy brought the plates, asked if there'd be anything else, and before we answered, dropped the check and walked away. She knew Dolly-girl and so she knew there was never anything else--we had what we'd come for. The Charlie was tasty, much better than a run-of-the-mill radio, with some chopped stalk, breath, and just enough of the Dijon spicy. The wax was sharp and the rye was toasted crisp, just right. The cowfeed was added by Missy I'm guessing as it was fresh and cool while everything else was piping. The potage poulet à la bébé was great in the alley--full of clucker and rabbit food in a thick cream. Dolly-girl was looking at a regular trip through the farmer's market on wheat over on her side of the table. I knew from her look that it was hitting the spot, with those sweet potato fries punching extra hard.

Dolly-girl stirred her blonde, drank it down, and tossed her napkin on the plate. "Told you it was A-list" she purred. I can't disagree with that. A Jackson got us outta there with a smile on Missy's face. Outside a few flakes were coming down. I pulled Dolly-girl close, tugged the brim of my fedora, and pushed the door open. The bell on the door tinkled twice as we crossed the street and headed home. It won't be the last time I hear that bell.

Inauguration 2008: The Lincoln Memorial Concert

I'm just back from the concert at Lincoln Memorial to celebrate the inauguration of Barack Obama. Yes, I know, I didn't tell you I was going. Frankly, I was surprised myself, but I'm sure glad I did it. It was exhilarating, even though it was really cold there. The crowd was huge. I'm really glad I had my super long lens with me or I never would have gotten these shots.



The show opened with The Boss doing The Rising, joined by a choir. It was great. I've always loved that song and it was surely a good way to start off the concert. He was dressed for the occasion in what looked to be like fairly new black jeans and a pretty new leather coat. I was disappointed that Little Steve wasn't with him. Of course, he may still be recovering from the wounds he suffered as Silvio Dante.



There have been a lot of parallels drawn between Barack and other presidents, particularly Franklin Roosevelt and John Kennedy. Of course, I wasn't alive when Roosevelt was inaugurated, but today's concert took me back to JFK's ceremony where I, like everyone else was stirred by his call to service. I snapped this picture from a very good vantage point at that speech. President-elect Obama warmed up to that today and will likely issue a Kennedy-like call with Roosevelt-like challenges. I'm anxiously awaiting his speech, even though I won't be able to attend it personally.


One of the high points today for me personally was when our own Sheryl Crow was able to play for the President- and Vice-President-elect and their families. For those of you who are loyal readers of the page, you will remember that Nancy and I were central to the rescue and recovery of Sheryl this summer after she flew into one of our windows. She seems to have recovered and, I am happy to say, after her last molt, she's looking a lot better than when she was perched in our bushes.




Another highlight was to see those Obama girls--are they cute or what? I'll bet it will be hard for them to go to school on Wednesday. "Hey, what did you guys do over the weekend?"

Bono and U2 gave a really nice performance and reminded us that people around the world are watching this event. Then the President-elect addressed us and told us, basically, to take our expectations of him down a notch and up our expectations of ourselves several notches. It's an important time to be telling us the truth. Speaking of which, have you seen the snow storm of revisionist history coming out of the Bush administration lately?










The concert closed with Beyoncé Knowles singing a beautiful rendition of America the Beautiful and then she was joined by all the other performers.

So, I've finally warmed up, I've flown back to Oregon, and I've written this blog. What? You're asking about the red border around some of the pictures? And maybe some of the strange colors and resolution? What, you don't think I was really in Our Nation's Capital for the concert? Well..., er..., gotta go...