Angel wings and drinking vinegar with soda water.
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Pok Pok, for a lot of people in the northwest, is probably old news. When I first visited it a little over a year ago at the recommendation of my friend Jessica, it was still relatively obscure. The repetitive name did not hang on the lips of northwest foodies like a whisper to a lover, did not elicit knowing nods like it does now.
When I first went to Pok Pok, it was far less known.
Best. Wallpaper. Ever.
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I don’t get interior decorating.
You won't believe how many words I need to describe what this is.
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It’s not easy being Portland. Staying on the cutting edge of weird, on the forefront of WTF, can only be exhausting. The city is constantly inventing, perfecting, and growing tired of things that won’t reach the rest of us until months or even years later.
They are the connoisseurs of pastimes we don’t yet know exist.
Rand and I are heading to Portland soon. We haven’t been there since the end of last summer, when we stopped for a night on our way down to Ashland.
I’m thrilled to be going back. I love Portland. It’s this wonderful combination of beauty and grit, of art and industry. And perhaps nothing captures that better than the signs and marquis that dot the city. They’re everywhere: some spray painted, some neon. They denote all manner of businesses, from book stores to strip clubs, upscale restaurants to homeless shelters.
The last time that I was in Portland, between the light of a late summer sun and the magic of neon gas, the city positively glowed. Here are a dozen photos from that afternoon, when I roamed the city with my beloved, and marveled at its dingy loveliness.
Unofficial city motto.
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I loved carnivals in my youth.
I loved the way cheap outdoor lighting reflected onto hay cast that world in sepia tones. I loved the smell of the air – of grease and old wood and cotton candy.
There would be twinkling lights, and music, and rides. Enormous, horribly-constructed stuffed animals hung above the rigged games on the midway, as they had for years, because no one could ever win them. Children walked by, sticky from giant swirled lollipops that never tasted as good as they looked. Men in cowboy hats and boots; women with teased hair and pink lip gloss, their names airbrushed across the front of their shirts in rainbow colors. As a child, I wanted nothing more than a shirt like that. Sartorially speaking, I suppose it’s best that I never got one.
“You know what they say … if you don’t like the weather, shut up.” – text of an email I received from Groupon today.
Spring is coming. I know technically it’s already here, should have started roughly a month ago, but in Seattle all bets are off. In this town, you see things that will shake your meteorological understanding of our planet. I’ve experienced thundersnow. Seen highs of 70 degrees and lows of 20 in the same month (November, 2010). I’ve seen it hail on a sunny day. Weather in Seattle is a fickle mistress. It promises nothing, it lures you along, it abuses you and crushes your dreams.
But today? Today there is a promise of spring in the air. And unlike all the times I swore to my mother that I’d keep my room clean and stop kicking my brother in gonads (he deserved it), this promise seems to be real. So as I stare out my window at a view that we won’t have for much longer, I’m reflecting on the months passed, and the winter that finally, finally seems to be over. I feel like I’ve weathered a storm. And miraculously, I’ve come through it unscathed.
It reminds me of our drive back from Portland a few months back (admit it: you were wondering where the hell I was going with all this wordy nonsense, weren’t you?).
As I was composing yesterday’s post, I realized something: the problem with having so many good restaurants in Portland, is that we rarely go any place twice. Even if we really enjoyed it, it’s not worth passing up the opportunity to try a new place. Meals are an endless string of one night stands: You promise the pretty girl at the door – and yourself – that you will call again, but you rarely do. So strong is the desire to test the waters, to see what else is out there.
There are, of course, exceptions. The meal so incredible, it makes you want to forget your culinary commitment issues and settle down. You are hopelessly smitten: and you can’t think of anyone else.
For me and Rand, this place is Broder.
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While down in Portland a few weeks ago, I met the lovely Jessica from WhyGoItaly. I can easily attest to her awesomeness (and I swear, even if she didn’t read my blog I would do so). She gave me some tips about our trip to Italy (which were profoundly helpful – but that, as they now say, is another post), and I asked her for some Portland suggestions, as I had the day free.
The strange thing about Portland, we noted, is that there isn’t a lot to do. Well, that’s not entirely true – obviously, there’s good shopping (tax-free! Whoo-hoo!), a rich night life, and a museum or two. But in terms of attactions or notable landmarks to visit (a’la Seattle’s Space Needle or San Francisco’s Golden Gate Bridge) there aren’t really any. Instead, it seems that the thing to do in Portland is eat.
The food scene in Portland is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. The place is rife with restaurants, and the cultural landscape and competition demand that they be good. Like, really good. Like, this-is-the-best-thing-I’ve-ever-had-in-my-mouth-(that’s-what-she-said) good. Like … you get the idea, right?
I suppose you want to know what all this nonsense is about. You’ve come to the right page...
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