A Friday Evening in Portland: Dinner at Ned Ludd

I was upstairs listening to the Tele-Tone when the blower sparked. Dolly-girl yelled up the steps, "Who's on the wire?" "McNulty and that red-head he's keeping company with, you know, Rhonda." "No, the blower." "Oh." I answered, "Yeahlow, D'Mestiere's. Whosit?" Slim. He and Tootsie were gonna be at their, whatcha callit, pied à terre in Stumptown and wanted to know if we wanted to get a little something. We did.


Dolly-girl's greenies had been giving the once-over three or four times to a joint over on MLK and Shaver, on our side of the river. It was a piece from where Tootsie and Slim set their brake when they've got their derrieres sur la terre where their pieds ought to be. I told Slim. "You game?" "Shoot me and see." They were. "Ned Ludd. Make it a-quarter-til-seven." "On it." Click.





Ned Ludd is named for, well, Ned Ludd, supposedly the person from whom the Luddites took their name. Me and Dolly-girl are called them by some, although I don't know why since we are right up-to-date and on top of all the newest things, like the internets and the webs, and, afterall, I am writing this on a "blerg" from my fancy computer. At the agreed on time, we walked through the door, Dolly-girl in the lead. She kept it. "Dolly-girl for four, due right now." The head Missy checked her clipboard. Hmmm, maybe there's something to the name; none of that fancy computer check in and vibrator pager if your table's not ready. Not that that vibrator pager can't be fun, follow? "Right, the rest of the party's here. Follow me."




We walked past a bar where it looked like the Volstad-buster knew what she was doing. She was moving fast enough to keep the missys hopping. They were calling out people's dreams and she was making those dreams come true, whether someone wanted to go straight or choose life on the rocks. We said our how-are-yas and settled. Missy showed up quick as a brown fox and looked at four lazy dogs. "Thirsty?" I answered, "My middle name." "His first and last, too," chimed in Dolly-girl and shot me a look through the wave.



Dolly-girl went for her usual, skidrow biancho. Tootsie looked Missy in the eye and asked, "Does that booze slinger know how to make me a Sazerac?" "I don't know about her, but I do. Poof, you're a Sazerac. Seriously honey, what she don't know about Sazeracs ain't worth drinking." "I'll call, Missy," Tootsie said with a rye smile. "Bring me one quick." Me and Slim both decided that there were fruits of Olea europaea that were just dying for a swim. "Drown three for me." "Yours?" Slim looked my way and nodded. "That song needs an encore, sing it again."



Missy knew us like I know Stumptown--she was back before two winks with the watering trough and she brought Bull Run all-around at the same time. She zipped away and was back with an order of flatbread before we could toast the Queen. "Looks like there's room for more victims," she said as she put down a shot of extra olives. We'd had a gander at the whaddaya-want and settled on a couple start-us-ups. She took the order and left us to our devices.






The house pickle plate tickled our fancy. Just about everything Heinz could pickle was on there, although Dolly-girl let me know H. J. had never splashed vinegar on these vegetables. The filet of fin flipper, Tootsie pronounced it a trout, came piled up with what Dolly-girl called a confit of fennel and leeks. I just laughed. I always do about eating a leek. You're supposed to take one, I tell her and it always gets me a shot through the wave and a "Whad-am-eye-gonna-do-wit-you-Jack." That's why I do it. She says it's adolescent. Guess I can't argue that. Can too! Anyway, the start-us-ups did just that and Missy was back to see what we wanted in our feedbags.





Tootsie and Slim both went for the quacker's girls with some what's-up-docs and other roots they pull out of the dirt piled on. I think Slim wanted it for a redux on the boys we drowned as they had some of then in there too. Dolly-girl went for clucker with those leeks again and a dose of German lettuce. I was looking at one of the nicest chops off a porker I've ever seen. It was as moist and tasty as they get and makes you want to head to the pen and thank Mrs. Porky for giving us that little trotter. It came on top of some sauteed cow feed and some of what my old man woulda called butter bullets.



Some roasted Belgians made it around the table. They charred them on the outside but they were sweet and tender inside--done just right. Missy didn't steer us into oncoming traffic about that. In fact, she knew what the hash slinger could sling. You know it'll be good when she tells you it's good.

I gotta tell you, those feedbags set us to spinning. Four jaws were going and nothing was being said. Oh sure, there were more than a few ahhs--like a line-up at the sore throat clinic--and a lot of ooohs. A bottle of rosso skidrow--Cascina Corte "Pirochetta"-- washed it down for three of us while Dolly-girl did a do-it-again on her chardonnay from down The Valley.



Just when you were thinking she'd be there, sure enough, Missy was back around with the finish-it-off card. Slim was thinking milk and cookies while Dolly-girl and Tootsie can never say never to a panna cotta. Me, I can say never all day to that, but you can't wave a cognac past my nose without getting a snap like a trout after a mayfly. Slim was singing My Old Kentucky Home while Tootsie went French with Ferigoule--she had plenty of thyme.




Missy checked in on us again and, after giving us the once-over-twice, decided it was time to settle up. Plus the place was packing up and a bunch of people wanted to do a Chris Brown/Michael Jackson mash-up karaoke to our table with "There's never a right time to say goodbye...SO IT MIGHT AS WELL BE NOW! JUST BEAT IT!" We settled up. It wasn't cheap, seeing as how we'd kept the booze slinger fully employed--Slim and I each left Mr. Franklin and General Jackson shaking hands and a smile on Missy's face.



But seeing as how we'd had a great time, great drinks, great food, and great service, who's complaining? Not me. We slipped out into the night, said our Vaya con dios, and agreed that there's absolutely nothing wrong with being a Luddite in Stumptown, especially if it means tying on the feedbag at Ned Ludd!

Looking at Life 2009

January 2010. A new year. June 3, 2007 I started this blog and here's part of what I wrote:

Mostly I started this because I like to take pictures and share them except that I don't make my gallery public since my name is in the address and...oh what the hell, no one will look at this anyway.

So in 2007, 2008, and now 2009, I've reviewed the pictures I've taken. In the old days, I chose when I clicked the shutter release. Now, there's no reason not to push the shutter release. The selectivity comes on the downstream end. Now I've chosen.

Over the past 3 weeks, I've looked at all 5300 and some images I took this year. It was easy to pick the top 10%--530. It was even easy to get to 265, 5%. The top 100--2%. That was hard. The top 50? The top 1 point something percent? It was fun.

I have my reasons for picking them, but click here to see them:

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!

Christmas Eve Afternoon in Portland: Lunch at Christopher's Gourmet Grill

My neighbor, Hob, gave me the low-down on an uptown joint that gets high marks for frying up fin flippers. Me and Books headed over there for lunch after dropping Dolly-girl at the moving pictures for a Hollywood number she'd been waiting to see. We set the brake at NE Shaver and MLK and moseyed into Christopher's Gourmet Grill. It's not much from the outside, but I'm used to that around Stumptown, and besides, Hob's lived here a long time and he's never given me a wrong turn yet.



The whaddaya-want's on the wall over the pass-it-thru to Missy. There were all sorts of eats on the wall, but we'd come for the creatures of the deep and we were stuck on our mission. I'm curious though so I spent some time looking over the fare, including the Man-up Cheeseburger and the BBQ ribs. Sides of greens, mac and wax, and gumbo pods were said to be at the ready, along with the fries that came with everything. We coulda had a dinner, but opted for the basket since it the noon whistle was sounding and Dolly-girl was planning something big for Santa eve. We ordered up the cod and Irish nails.




The joint is clean as my plate after dinner and was all done in blue including some blue light shades on ceiling fans and on lamps over the tables. Nice touch--makes you think of a blue-plate and a neighborhood spot, which it is. It was about a quarter full when me and books took a seat--good view out the front in case trouble was going to come join us. He didn't. They got some signs there to remind Mr. T that Christopher's is a place a whole family likes.




The hash slinger, and I'm guessing it's Christopher, was in the back. Turns out, he was trawling our cod through the corn patch and adding some spices along the way.

While we waited patiently, orders came out of the kitchen and Missy dropped them off at the hungry tables in order. Then, after a few minutes, she checked back to make sure everything was OK. It musta been 'cause there was a lot of chewing and not much talking. People called and then came in and out for orders with wheels.



Missy brought our orders and we both gave her the up and down and knew Hob had steered us right. The fin flippers were long fillets, with just a thin cornmeal coating and fried crispy on the outside and tender and moist on the inside. One bite and I was pulling the bobber to the bottom for more. Tartar sauce and mustard on the side and I was having rapture of the deep! Books nodded. Fish and fries was what he was mining and pining for and he hit paydirt.



It didn't take long to do the disappearing act with that flipper. With a feedbag that full, we had to pass on sweet potato pie that looked like someone knew his way around the yam patch!

If fish fried up just right is singing to you, I haven't had better anywhere than Christopher's Gourmet Grill. Lots of what they call high-brow joints in Stumptown could learn more than a thing or two from Christopher. Plus, a Jackson and a Christmas Eve tip got us out the door with an invitation to come back that won't be laying on the counter long.

Merry Christmas to All from Stumptown!

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!

Back by popular demand is our own Yule Log a la WPIX

Me and Dolly-girl want to wish all of our friends, from Stumptown to Hawkesbury; from the Rose City to the Windy City; from the Left Coast, which is the right one, to the Right Coast, which isn't; to Tinseltown, Ithaca Schmithica, the Valley With a Heart, the Heart of the Valley, Our Nation's Capital, and Salt City; to The Best Location in the Nation, Ravenrock Ranch, Ft. Lauderdale Island, Washington, the Redwood Forest and the Gulf Stream Waters;

A Very Merry Christmas and Best Wishes for a Healthy and Happy 2010!

An Afternoon Down The Valley: Poutine at Block 15 in Corvallis

Me and Books hopped in the roadster early this A.M. and headed Down The Valley to talk with some people that needed talking with down there. Dolly-girl held down the fort in Stumptown, which consisted of enjoying the luxury provided by a bath in our tub that's hooked up to a brand-new water heater that me and Books put in yesterday. Amazing what a tub full of hot water and a handful of salts will do for a girl.

Anyway, I was on my way to meet Beluga Slim, a Bluesman pal-o-mine. We like to get together from time-to-time and take in a couple of cold ones that got what it takes to hop off the bar and into your mitt. We met up at Block 15, a new joint compared to most in Corvallis, Oregon, and a notch above them all in my book. They brew their own there and they've got some dandies including their standards, Alpha IPA and Aboriginale. In as much as it's the holiday season, they are pouring the 12 Hops of Christmas. Beluga Slim had given me a call on the blower to let me know this one was worth the trip. Turns out it was and more.


Me and Books slid into town about 1 and met Beluga at the Block. Corvallis was a mass of people--we had to park 3 blocks away and that's pretty rare. We moseyed over; Beluga Slim had a booth.

Missy had a cold one in front of Beluga and it didn't take long for her to do the same for us. She brought the whadda-ya-wants along with the pints of hops. I opened it up and took a gander. My eyes went to the right and, what? Poutine. C'est vrai, mes amis! Books went for a Peppertree beer sausage sandwich, and Beluga heard a burger calling him home.





I brought up that I was a little worried about ordering poutine in Corvallis, Oregon, a place not noted for gourmet food. She countered with where she came from--Halifax, up the line there, as my friend Newshawk would say--nobody really thought of poutine as gourmet. I had to give her a nod about that one. I also mentioned that the phonetic guide in the whaddaya-want--(poo-TAIN) didn't get it from where the Newshawk sets his brake. She said she thought someone there heard some Cajun call it that but that she didn't think I should give it no nevermind.



It didn't take Missy much longer to bring that poutine out than it took me to drain that pint. She left the feedbags and went back for more first-aid for parched travelers.

The feedbag she put down in front of me had the real thing in it. They started off with a pile of their murphies--they put a light coating of beer batter on them which makes them fry up crispy and I'll tell you, they stood up to the gravy--AT-TEN-TION!



The gravy was a good brown one that tasted like it was likely destined for meat loaf, but took a side trip North of the Border. It was the real thing--never seen the inside of a can, I'm guessing--with just the right dose of salt; it made those suds heros. The curds were piled on and melted stringy and gooey, just right. It was a big plate and I thought I'd be taking a box home to Dolly-girl, but...




It was the clean plate club for me.

So, Block 15 gets a solid 4 curds from me after a 1/2 curd deduction for coming on china instead of paper. It's the best I've had south of the border and I think it would hold its own up the line too.

For all you want to know about poutine, check out Ronna's Poutine Chronicles!

An Evening in Portland: Dinner at Lovely Hula Hands

I woke up early on Sunday with a start. The cats were cozied in with Dolly-girl--nobody wanted to get out of bed 'cause of the fact that for Stumptown, it was freezing. Literally. Thirty-two degrees. Maybe a little colder. OK, so that's above zero, but this is Stumptown and we didn't sign up for Siberia, you know. We can't see it from our house and we sure as hell don't want to feel it.




Anyway, I hopped out of bed and started the joe perking on the Tappan because it was Dolly-girl's compleanno. She looks as young as the day I laid my blue boys on her greenies.

Back a coupla weeks ago, me and Dolly-girl were perambulating up on Alberta and she laid eyes on a piece of art made out of maps and nails and wood and it looked like a heart--even I recognized that. Well, I made note and then snuck back and picked it up for her. Turns out some realtor chiquita name of Kim Hamblin makes that art. I'm thinking art and real estate are probably about the same these days in terms of earning potential. Wait, I bought some art...

Well, Dolly-girl's greenies did a dance when she unwrapped the heart and it got me the sorta look through the wave that I like. We decided to take the birthday dinner out, so I got Kitty on the blower and we picked Lovely Hula Hands, a joint Dolly-girl had been to with her friend Blueberry, but me and Kitty had never darkened the door. When Dolly-girl was telling me about the place she was doing the hula thing with her mitts. She gave it the up-and-down and it turns out she was right on.



We set the brake and the three of us walked in. Didn't look to me like trouble was out on this Sunday night, so we took a table upstairs, me with my back to the room. I won't make that mistake again. I missed too much good sight-seeing, like people gnawing on meat..

There was stuff hanging on the walls and some old lights and other things that Dolly-girl calls "period" or "art." It just looks to me like they grabbed some grandma's leftovers and put them around the room


Missy brought the whaddya-drinking but we didn't pay it no nevermind. No beer on tap so the three of us were drinking skid-row. Me and Kitty went for the rosso while Dolly-girl was chasing down the bianco. Me and Kitty should've split a bottle, but we didn't think of it. They had the new one from France and it was tapping on my shoulder.




Missy showed up with the skid-row and Bull Run all around. She parked and said, "What-le-it-be?"

I told her to bring around an order of oil in the flesh--you know, the green-and-blacks. Dolly-girl said, "Cow feed--stack it high and bring us three plates. We'll split it up." Kitty nodded--she was game.



Missy was back in about four shakes. I'm thinking the up and down is keeping her gams skinny and her face long. Plus, come to find out, the joint is closing up while they "re-invent" themselves, whatever that means, in a new hash house next door. Anyway, the feed was as described and we packed it down.


We did a twice over on the whadda-ya-want and settled on what-we're-having. Dolly-girl went back to the old country and had some Chef Boyardees with Hansel and Gretel croutons in a bowl. Kitty called for clucker. Dress it with flour and fat and sprinkle some leaves on it. The clucker was so exciting I couldn't even hold the camera still...












Me, a burger was playing the National Anthem and I stood at attention. When it rolled around, it was like the Fourth of July with all the ooos and ahhs floating around my burger and fried up murphies. But, that clucker was top notch. It had a sauce that would make your ticker stand still like molasses on a frosty morning. The Chefs were the real thing--Dolly-girl had no regrets about flipping the calendar over another year if this was the reward.



Well, we made fast work of those feed bags and then Dolly-girl put down her finger. "Don't you guys be telling anyone this is the day I first saw the light back there in that coal mining town!" "Not us Dolly-girl," purred Kitty. But, I'd already put in the word with Missy. We looked at the shouldn't-have-it-but-we-will and I knew whatever came out would be on fire.






Missy made good on the request and the a chunk of Gretel and Hansel showed up, swimming in caramel and topped with a whipped up baby. No doubt about it, it was worth blowing at a candle.






Missy brought the check. I looked it over and didn't complain. Yeah, it was more than you'd expect to pay at a burger joint, but then I was the only Hamilton--Perry and Della had Jacksons. The feedbags were real tasty, the skid-row top-notch, and shouldn't-have-had-it--well, we shouldn't have had it but we were glad-we-did.

Four sawbucks a piece got us down the stairs and out the door with a "Glad you could make it," from Missy. Too bad the place is closing. But I'm guessing the new joint, "Lovely 50-50" will be just as good and worth every 8 bits you drop in there. We'll be there.

We headed out the door, the three of us. I patted my heater and fired a Lucky. Kitty and I sang the birthday song, and Dolly-girl hooked her arm through mine, turned the collar on her Persian Lamb up to the wind, and hummed Poker Face..." Another Sunday night in Stumptown.