Our days are filled with some structure but normally end up morphing into experiences and artistic forays. I’m not an ardent supporter of un-schooling as my rigidity refuses to allow for any such thing in any part of my daily life. But, a little relaxation in lieu of imparting creativity to my kids is perfectly fine in my eyes.

This morning I decided to move our workbook tasks to St. Honoré Boulangerie for a change of scenery and to alleviate the aforementioned boredom. As Hero cracked her book open to work on a vocabulary list, behind her le boulanger began working on a batch of freshly proofed dough. Decked in a white skull cap and shirt, he looked more like an artist as opposed to an artisan. He caught Hero’s eye instantly as she took a moment to case the room. Workbook be damned, she got up and walked to take a seat at the counter to watch as if he had a gift-wrapped present for her. I began to stop her, but realized that her attentiveness to his work was in and of itself an education.

From her earliest days, Hero would pull on my pants leg and beg me to hold her in my arms as I cooked. Realizing full well that this was dangerous, I would most often tell her no, but even more so, she would coax me with forlorn countenance to merely hold her. After very tired arms holding a growing child, she became my “sous chef.” What else would she be, this sponge of all things food? Mind you, though, that she doesn’t have the biggest appetite, but does try now and then to expand her tasting horizons beyond cheese, bread, and chocolate. Hero is still interested in watching food prep no matter if it’s something she likes or not. This is profoundly child-like and eager – and I adore it.

I gathered our books and packed them away in my bag as I approached the bar to take my seat next to the baker-in-training. Apparently she’d already drilled le boulanger with questions regarding what he was making. As I watched curiously, Hero informed me that she relayed my story of ill-fate with my baguette attempt from the day before (they over-proofed, and a layer of gray residue from the half-sheet pan somehow adhered itself to the dough). The artist softly told me he often fails at baguette-making at home.

I felt a little better.

Hero and I watched as the dough was shaped and set to rest, shortly to become long tubes of delicious bread, light and crisp. I sipped my cappuccino wondering if I’d realized earlier in life my obsession with baking and food that I’d be the artist behind that counter, sensing every sour bouquet; wishing I’d found that path instead of where I am. Snapping back to reality, I realized that there was a man with a heavy French accent standing a few feet away from me, sipping on a thick, dark espresso. He laughed while speaking in French to an older, attractive woman and broke to tell le boulanger how good the loaves freshly removed from the massive clay oven smelled. “The smell – the smell is very important, eh?” Le boulanger nodded and shot half a smile.

Hero turned her sweet face to me and drew a long breath through her nose and nodded. “Yep, Dad, that guy is right. It smells so good.”

There are things that no book can ever hope to teach you.

Upon walking into Portland’s Caffé Umbria, I was clubbed over the head by the jubilant blackjack. Like Anton Ego, I was transported to a time a decade and a half ago where, with the help of my future wife, I became privy to the café culture of not only Ilha Terceira in the Azores, Portugal, but to the café culture of Europe. This way of life exists only in isolated pockets across America and mostly in European dominated areas that have since been spoiled by highways and high-traffic roads. Luckily, though, here in Portland, arguably America’s most European city, we have the likes of Caffé Umbria.

Caffé Umbria is, at its base, a simple café: various coffee and espresso offerings, some alcohol, pastries, and light Italian fare. That’s all. While my café latte, double shot, was deliriously delicious (along with the sensually dark chocolate piece that came with it) and the varied sandwiches we tried were hearty and satisying, it was the atmosphere that caught my attention. From walking by the front windows and outdoor seating, overhearing the gathered group of men laugh while loudly discussing the calcio match that had just ended, to observing finely dressed people on a Sunday stand at coffee bar tables chatting in various accents, to smelling the silky aroma of fine espresso; this place has it right. Some how, some way, they have been able to capture that European sense of camaraderie, of living a slower life, and of savoring the moment in beautifully delicious ways. The warmth of the café’s colors and the slick and modern styling enhance both the lighting and the mood, seemingly urging conversation between even perfect strangers.

I’m not even sure I’ve come back from my journey, yet. I’m not even sure I will any time soon. It forces me to wonder if this is what it’s like to get stuck in a high. Times like this hold on to too small a portion of our attention and it just shouldn’t be that way.

I had a great day and it was completely the fault of Caffé Umbria.

Thanks.

I’ll be back soon for more.

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Over the holidays I managed to sneak a present into my wife’s stocking, Cindy Anderson’s Portland Happy Hour Guidebook, and since then (because of Kim’s great idea to follow through with the book!) we’ve been on a quest to avoid the fast food dark side in favor of cheap eats and drinks – real food and real drinks. Go figure!

So far, so good.

So far, so very good.

On New Year’s Day and a few days later, Kim and I treated ourselves to Cha Taqueria, which received a high rating from the guidebook and seemed to have reasonable prices. We left both times literally on a high and, in my case, a little buzzed from the cheap and delicious house sangria. The food was, indeed, that stupendous.

Well over a year ago, I wrote the following in a past blog entry:

I’ve had this continuing battle between my taste buds and my brain since I moved here almost a year ago. One of the things I greatly anticipated upon entering the gates of the San Diego area was its overflowing plethora of Mexican street food – tacos, burritos, quesadillas. Considering this area is not only famous for them, but is one of the areas where this particular cuisine was given birth, you’d expect that fare of this sort would, well, be astounding. I haven’t found astounding yet. Nay, I’ve barely found good. As I’ve oft said to my dear wife, if this is authentic Mexican, then I don’t like Mexican food.

At this point I’d like to retract that last sentence because, strangely enough, I’ve found the Mexican food of my dreams here in Portland. Yes, Cha Taqueria may be the saving grace for all Mexican food that San Diego somehow doomed for me. Cha, though, from the minute you walk in is a definite Portland establishment. You might catch some banda over the overhead speakers but then you may get some indie rock or some techno. The ingredients tend to remain local with most of the meats sourced within Oregon or Washington. The make-up of the restaurant leans modern, arty, yet is comfortable. The service both times was impeccable and when service seems to be an ever-present issue amongst Portland eateries, it’s well appreciated to be paid attention to so closely without being constricting.

The food…ah, yes…the food. Have I mentioned that I am gleeful beyond all smiling to have found such delicious Mexican food? Over the two visits, we tried five separate happy hour offerings and all five were delectable. Notably, the dos marias (Draper Valley chicken quesadillas with salsa verde) and the picaditas de morelos (from-scratch corn cakes topped with black beans, veggies, and cheese) both caught our attention with their textures and strong flavors. Delphina had a burrito de vegetariano which was beautifully dressed with two sauces, making the plate look like a canvased painting. Two other plates held their own, a plate of carnitas enchiladas served covered in a mole sauce and a plate of chicken and potato taquitos served with pico de gallo. Kim took a few minutes to warm up to the carnitas enchiladas, but came around to enjoying them quite a bit. The key here was that nothing felt like, looked like, or, especially, tasted like it was frozen or prepared days ahead of time. Everything was fresh, crisp, and genuinely prepared with care and dedication.

So, you may wonder, “OK. So, everything sounds good, but how much did it set you back?” Okay, here’s the tally:

1st visit (just me and Kim): $15 for two plates (which is plenty to make us happily full) and a sangria, including tip.

2nd visit (the four of us): $30 for four plates, a sangria, and two horchatas, including tip.

That’s it.

Period.

I would’ve spent that much at any Mexcian fast food hole, you take your pick. And I wouldn’t have even gotten the free chips and salsa that I forgot to mention!

The spring of the year symbolizes re-birth or renewal. The autumn often means closure or a means to an end, winter. Conversely for me, though, the fall of the year has come to mean something quite the opposite. For me, it’s the spring of life. There is no other time of year that makes me feel like living life anew. The closure of summer brings about a host of possibilities – gatherings, foods, experiences, learning. It colors the lens of my life like no other time of year. I feel like loving. I feel like experiencing. I feel like growing.

Delphina and I drove the hour or so back to our home amidst the aroma of bright, sweet, and sour apples. I’d bought probably two dozen or so of the crisp fruits of reddish gold. Of course, Fina’s face was a little messy from the caramel apple she made an attempt to chomp down. What kid – and Delphina was not a messy eater – is actually able to eat one of those without making a mess? I contemplated what exactly to do with the apples that my wife was not going to use for her apple bake – whole apples, cored, filled with sugar and nuts, baked until soft. With so many options, how could one choose?

Kim and I had a gathering planned to celebrate the passing of summer into the harvest. It was to take place on the Autumnal Equinox. We had everything planned – the food, drink, and music. We’d asked everyone to bring a dish to share with others and maybe some drink as well. Of course, everyone was notified to be aware and sensitive to the fact that there would be an inordinate amount of vegans attending. Foods of the harvest lend themselves well to being meat and dairy free.

The evening of the fest came, warm with a slight bite of chill. We lit candles, covered the television with a sarong, and waited. Who would actually attend? People can be counted on to love the idea of attending a party but are rarely energized enough to do so. The sweet smell of apples and squash filled the air all the way out to our porch.

Little did we know that this first Harvest Party would not only be well attended, but would turn into a feast anticipated yearly by all our friends. What we thought would be a small party of friends sharing precious time with one another morphed into a Thanksgiving meal. We all loved one another and we all made sure that we were thankful for the treasure of friendship. We ate, drank, and probably sang as the evenings moved on.

It’s hard to pass this time of year without remembering our lives as they were back then. The last Harvest Party took place in 2002 – six years ago. I can count those days as the best years of my entire life. I’ve come to realize that through the magnificence of food and the bare-naked power of friendship, the circle of life itself is a celebration of knowing one another. It’s an ever-lasting homage to the love we have for our friends, for our Earth and the bounty for which it gives birth every spring and summer, the harvest of fall, and the death of winter.

See, it is the autumn that brings love into my life and prods me into remembering what life is all about: living.

Here’s to the autumn and to one day celebrating the Harvest again amongst our dear friends in Michigan.

The years following were very difficult for my mother. Our relationship was strained because she became depressed and depended on me to fill the voids in her life, which I could not do. I had a young family, a baby on the way, work, music, and a social life. Although I did what I could to help my mother, not much could really propel her from the deep depression she was suffering through.

There were distinct times that brought her out of the doldrums and they invariably involved sitting down and eating food with us. Often this involved just a mere chili dog from the Mack Avenue National Coney Island in Detroit. Sometimes it involved a trip to Olive Garden where my mom would use her finger to scrape up the last of the alfredo sauce from the dipping bowl which would, in turn, cause Kim to dry heave. Every now and then, we would enjoy a two hour trip to Frankenmuth to enjoy the all-you-can-eat splendor of Zehnder’s family-style chicken dinner. No matter what, through this dark period and all throughout the rest of my life, food was at the center of our happiness and gatherings. The holidays, the summer celebrations, the random Sunday barbecues, the Catholic commemorations – all reasons to eat in communion.

After moving my mother to Portland while hoping that some how, some way her mood would lift, a man appeared seemingly out of nowhere. Harold was another resident at Chestnut Lane and he fancied my mother quite a bit. Being a widower himself, they both had quite a bit in common. He’d even converted to Catholicism in the recent past, which my mother thought was quite an attractive quality – along with his cigar smoking habit. On Valentine’s Day of 2004, they became an item and have been ever since. The love they share is beautiful and downright cute in their older age. They’re both younger sharing each other’s company and, indeed, my mother’s depression lifted immediately.

This is why, later my second day in Portland, after a good nap to sleep off the croque monsieur, I went with my mom and Harold to dinner. There is definite reason to celebrate their companionship. Considering that they each cannot drive and I was hoofing it, our dining choices were limited. I also needed to consider their geriatric eating habits, as well. Luckily for all of us, Pastini Pastaria made the brilliant decision in the last few years to open a downtown establishment reasonably close to the MAX lines. I couldn’t have been happier at the news.

See, Pastini Pastaria doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is – a wallet-friendly, family-friendly, pasta place with decent, fresh ingredients, good wines, and simple, excellent desserts. Of course, in Portland fashion, Pastini stays on top of all the food trends and tries to remain as local as possible. It also doesn’t shy away from being fashionable and modern in its decor all the while being as far away from kitschy as possible. This is not The Old Spaghetti Factory here – although their prices are just about the same. Pastini is serious about good, freshly made food and it shows.

We were helped inside by the remarkable staff with every consideration made for my mom and Harold’s walking assistance. Their walkers were moved off to the side after being seated (They were helped down the ramp to our booth). Our server – a mighty convincing doppelganger of my fellow iddreamer, Randy, but gay – was more than patient with us and made sure that when he spoke, his lips were visible just in case my mom and Harold needed to lip-read (For those of you that do not know, they are both deaf). It made me so glad that we made it out to dinner and it made me ecstatic to be in Portland.

Our orders came promptly after we snacked on the parmigiana bread. My mother and Harold shared a bowl of the rigatoni with meat sauce bolognese and I ordered for myself the linguini with chicken piccata. Because it was a fairly warm day, I aimed for something lighter and refreshing – and refreshing it was. The sauce comprised of white wine, lemon, butter, and capers hit my taste buds with the brightness I’d been hoping it would. Tart and smooth, it was a great accompaniment to the grilled chicken. The linguini was al dente in texture and soaked up the sauce well. Truly delicious – especially for less than ten bucks. My mom and Harold loved their pasta as well – and they are indeed a picky twosome. I tried a quick bit of the bolognese and it was dead-on with the meaty texture and the sweet overtones. Nicely done pasta – although I would’ve preferred this on a rainy day in November.

Dessert followed with a coffee for Harold and for me the lemon pudding cake, which knocked my socks off. The cake was moist with the lemony pudding and dressed with sweet berry sauce. I savored every last bit of that dessert. My mom – who hasn’t had a sweet tooth for years – loved it, too. I was sort of worried she would eat it all! However, the most interesting part was Harold’s coffee, of all things. I immediately noticed the aroma and knew that it was damn good coffee. It didn’t smell like your average crap that most restaurants serve. Just as I mentioned this to my mom, Harold took a sip, black of course, and the first words from his hands were: “This coffee is very good!” I asked our Randy doppelganger what coffee it was and, of course, he filled us in on the wonders of Portland Roasting – a local roaster renowned for its coffee but not widely available through retail outlets.

Ah, Portland.

So ended our lovely evening dining together, as we always had in the past….

I, however, wanted to walk out my full tummy. Strangely enough, I later ended up drinking coffee in a place that I would’ve sworn was an indie rock bar if I didn’t know better…..

Faces

Walking from the Pearl Bakery with a full tummy and my senses reeling from the all-out assault of deliciousness, I had no particular heading in which to follow. Which is good. There is much merit to the oft-quoted Tolkien line from The Lord of the Rings, “Not all those who wander are lost.” I wanted to unveil so many of the things I desired to leave hidden when I lived in Portland. Not being exactly sure of what fear drove this, it was easy at this point (perhaps from having to shelve fear itself over the last few years?) to just let go, walk like I owned Portland, and let everything swallow me whole. I was ready for it.

Wandering through The Pearl, it hit me that so much has changed in this newly developing area. Years ago this was the warehouse district, which is obviously evident with, duh, all the barren warehouses transformed into living spaces or retail shops and eateries and art galleries. What Portland has chosen to do with it and how to integrate it into the Portland that already existed is nothing short of genius. Seamlessly, the Pearl morphs Portland into less of an older urbanized city to a chic, modern, yet still bustling and livable neighborhood. The streetcar services the area well by making it easy to access most parts of the city core from the Pearl itself to NW 21st and 23rd marketplace-lined streets and through the city center on to the waterfront where the new tram sits ready to take anyone up to the Oregon Health and Sciences University. Its very possible to live with one car in this area without having to fill it up for weeks. Bikes, of course, are everywhere. In fact, as I rode along the streetcar to a stop at the tram, I counted over 75 bikes in a series of bike racks just at this one stop. That, my friends, is a lot of bikes (which, if you’re an OHSU student, makes sense if you’re thinking health….). In short, it was entirely refreshing to walk around an actual neighborhood without ever having to wonder where I was going to park or how I would get around.

It wasn’t too long after the walking that my stomach signaled lunch time. Decisions, decisions. What the hell was I going to eat? It’s like setting a seven course meal in front of someone who hasn’t eaten in days. Where do you start? Well, I thought, I’ll just keep walking and see where I end up. I’d passed by Ken’s Artisan Breads the day before to have a Reuben at Rose’s, so Ken’s was an option still. But, then I did want to find some holes in the wall that seemed enticing and reasonably priced. Bah, I figured, I’ll walk and if nothing strikes me, I’ll make sure I make it back to NW 21st to eat at Ken’s.

Walking along 21st, I stumbled upon City Market adorned with colorful flowers at the entrance. There are flowers everywhere, here, by the way. The earth celebrates the sun when it does shine and every human sense knows it. I sought this market out specifically because I’ve been a fan of PBS program The Endless Feast. Ben Dyer is one of the featured hosts on the show and inside City Market is a butcher shop he runs called Viande. Being that he is one of my culinary inspirations, nothing was going to hold me back from checking out what they had to offer. The funny thing, though, was that upon walking in toward the Viande counter (which takes up a smallish corner of the market itself) I froze. Ben was there working on some meats in the window facing 21st and I just sheepishly looked at their cold case. There I was, a thirty-six year-old man and I acted like a fifteen year-old girl staring googly-eyed at her favorite emo singer. I did this once before back in 1994 when I attended the Indie Rock Flea Market in Washington, D.C. where I froze completely at the Dischord table where Ian MacKaye was standing behind the table selling his stuff. What the hell is the matter with me? I would, though, eventually catch up to Viande on Saturday.

Passing up a cheap $6 ham and brie on a baguette at City Market, I made my way to Ken’s. It was time. In the past, the only food I’d eaten at Ken’s was their famed crusty European-style breads and a few pastries. I don’t recall ever eating a sandwich there, though. For those of you unfamiliar with Ken’s, let me state one thing: legend has it that Ken is not just a culinary artist, but is a perfectionist – probably to some sort of maniacal level. His dedication to his passion for bread is pretty much unmatched in the Pacific Northwest and, perhaps, in America. You can read essays he’s written on bread at his website. They’re deep in both content and emotion. How can one not indulge in his wares?

The first things that hits you upon entering Ken’s is the smell of dark bread. This is to say: the aroma of slightly over baked crusts – the delicious crispiness and flavorful packaging to the soft and airy bread within the loaf. That much I certainly remember from running in and out of Ken’s picking up bread in the drench of winter years back. Everyone behind the counter seemed friendly and waited for my decision of which sandwich I would order. I felt no rush in the least, which was good because, although their menu isn’t extensive, each entry is something to consider.

I have to come back to benchmarks. In a bakery such as Ken’s, there must be some litmus test (much like the croissant at The Pearl Bakery) with which I can test the validity of the establishment as a whole – to just get a sense if their direction is true.

Kim, my dear wife, and I have a standing argument concerning croque monsieurs – embellished French ham and cheese sandwiches. It boils down to this: open-faced or no? She’s a firm believer of the closed and I think open-faced is better. I’m not sure exactly which is traditional, or if there is a traditional preparation (knowing the French, there must be). Nonetheless, it’s a bone we pick with one another over the love of food. It’s fun. And we’re bored like that.

Of course, I ordered the croque monsieur (at a mere $6.95) which, by the way, came to me served open-faced. Score one for Cas! A side note: the croque monsieur Kim ordered here in San Diego was closed (and not good…). The sandwich took a few moments to show up at my table and for good reason: everything is made to order at Ken’s. So, it wasn’t par-cooked and then given a once-over under the broiler. The sandwich was immediately appealing with the ham covered in cheese, all resting upon a slice of Ken’s country levain, and garnished with some fresh greens. Again, my sense of smell was attacked, but this time by the whiff of thyme (which sat under the ham, so as to not get burned) and the blue scent of the Gruyère cheese. I indulged immediately. The slices of ham were thin, smoky, and salty. The béchamel sauce, which made the sandwich moist and oh so comforting, was not heavy – a good thing. The Gruyère was aromatically strong yet acted like a perfect foil for the salty ham – it provided the balance for this delicious sandwich. The levain was delicate and crusty all at once. It is certainly true that Ken is a perfectionist, if this croque monsieur was any true indicator. Upon finishing the sandwich, I was left content. I almost felt like smoking a cigarette – and I don’t smoke.

It was sort of like taste bud sex.

Without the drunk relatives and Polish songs.

Screw You St. Tropez

The crack of dawn, my eyes wouldn’t shut. Peering over at my cell phone to get the time, I had to rub my eyes a few times because I couldn’t believe what I saw. Surely it was later. It had to be cloudy and darker outside. I couldn’t believe that it was 5:30am. Rolling over, I shut my eyes. Fifteen minutes passed and still nothing. No sleep. Fifteen minutes later, I wrestled my sheets (By the way, my mom’s sheets are rimmed with a fine sky blue with black leopard spots and her comforter is a shiny blue satin to match. I have to hand it to her: this woman knows how to decorate a place like it’s a bordello.) until they completely fell off the bed. I knew it was useless. My mind wouldn’t just shut the hell up – it kept telling me The bakeries are about to open, you idiot! and You hear the MAX out there don’t you? Get the hell up! You’re in Portland, you douche!

I woke up.

By 7:30-ish I was out the door and on the MAX, heading westward into the heart of the city that wouldn’t let me sleep.

After crossing the Steel Bridge on which the MAX makes its grand entrance into the heart of Portland, something closely akin to magic happens: suddenly, the air begins to smell different. Seemingly, the air normally tinged with a scent of greenery and car exhaust from the interstate is usurped by wafts of freshly made coffee, baking breads, and fresh from the oven pastries. It’s quite the spectacle, I assure you. Maybe it was this particular day (although my others all began similarly), maybe it was my insatiable lust for the pleasure of Portland’s bounty. I don’t know, but as the MAX approached Pioneer Courthouse Square, I was done. It was as if the bouquet of all the morning’s food walked aside the many pedestrians and rode in tandem with the cyclists all the while punching me in the face. The air in the center of Portland exploded with the aromatics of rich coffee and buttery flour. I began to feel like I was starving.

Getting off the westbound MAX at the Galleria stop, I stepped onto the pavement and headed toward the streetcar stop near by. Allow me to clarify: the MAX is not the streetcar. The MAX is a commuter train able to transport a few hundred passengers. The streetcar is smaller, runs only in the downtown area and can transport a much smaller amount of people. It’s nifty as hell though for getting around downtown if you don’t want to walk clear across the girth of it, which is completely within reason if you’re feeling spry. Oh, and did I mention that my week’s pass for all TriMet trains, streetcars, and buses was only $20?!? That, my friends, is a hell of a deal.

Hopping on the streetcar I realized that the people-watching downtown is superb. Through the interactions of other people and how they walk and where they walk I get a sense of the grand scheme of things wherever I might be. In Portland, this is enhanced by the wide variety of people to watch. From the swearing teen-agers I mentioned before to the reading students to the business people on their iPhones to the homeless people with their dogs and to the artists staring off into the future, the big little town that Portland is breeds life. There is a heartbeat to the city that has long faded from so many other metropolitan areas. My mom once said a few years ago as we rode the MAX downtown during the hasty Christmas season that Portland reminded her of the grand city Detroit had once been. It made her happy and sad all at once.

First on my agenda for this day was to find the Pearl Bakery somewhere in the Pearl District. I spent maybe a grand total of a half hour in the Pearl District in the two years I lived in Portland. Yeah, I’m not sure how that happened. I attribute it to the same weird reasoning that I never, ever, EVER rode the D.C. Metro system the entire year-and-a-half I lived there. It’s some sort of weird fear of the new I am trying to conquer. Nonetheless, I had a general idea of where the Pearl Bakery might lie, but decided I’d let my nose guide me. I didn’t realize, though, that without the senses of a bloodhound, I probably wouldn’t detect the distinct smell of a particular bakery because the air was criss-crossed with the onslaught of so many other cafés. Ah well, I thought, if I managed to walk astray, it wouldn’t be hard to get directions and, well, walking around somewhat aimlessly allows more sight-seeing of places I’d be glad to accidentally find!

I came across the Pearl Bakery soon enough, to my stomach’s utter glee, as it was just a couple blocks away from the streetcar stop. The sweet scent of almonds floated all around the four corners of NW 9th and Couch (That would be pronounced cooch – yeah, get your giggles out now.) Street. It was rather intoxicating and sent my mind into some sort of sensory overload in which my stomach began a churn not unlike an ungreased gear or cog. Oh, the pain of hunger amidst the scents of deliciousness!

Of course I was blessed by not only the unmistakable scent of almonds upon entering, but also the heady yeast and the strong freshly brewed coffees, the comforting din of conversation and the hissing of the espresso machine, and the warm lighting with walls of red and brown hues adorned with an assemblage of crusty breads and delectable treats. It felt good to merely be in the Pearl Bakery. And it just felt right.

To me, there is one defining attribute attesting to the quality of a bakery aside from its general bread baking. Hell, if the bread isn’t good, you can just throw the whole bakery into the river. Indeed, crusty breads aside, the quality of a bakery can be measured by the simple yet nearly impossible excellent croissant. Yeah, sure, bakeries everywhere serve croissants but most of them are stale, hard and chewy, or downright horrible. I’ve evidence of this here in San Diego with the faux-French travesty known as St. Tropez Bakery and Bistro. Of course, my maiden order at the Pearl Bakery was an almond croissant and a single cappuccino. They were now under the microscope and being tested by my taste buds. If there was a time to win me over, it was at this point because, otherwise, the rest of my day was going to be shot thinking in drama queen mode, Is there no hope at all? Am I just to wither and die from a dearth of quality cafés?

Alas, if there is one thing about Portland that stands out it is the fact that it wants to do everything right.

There is a certain point of contention between my wife and I concerning croissants. She likes having a croissant split in half and slathered with an almond paste, sort of like a donut. I, on the other hand, like the almond essence to be throughout the croissant with perhaps a bit gathered toward the center. I would much rather have the entire croissant flavored gently as opposed to being concentrated to a layer. Also, in slicing a croissant, you start that clock a-ticking. If that sucker is sliced and left in the display case for too long, it’ll be dry and will lose all of that very essential moisture from the inside. You’ll need that layer of paste to make up for the awful texture of the old, stale flakiness. The croissant I enjoyed was exactly how I liked it and then some. Altogether flaky on the outside and moist with a good dash of sponginess on the inside, there was little doubt to me that, until this point, I have never had a croissant this good – utter perfection inside and out (My hungry ass started eating the croissant before realizing I needed to take a photo of it. Hence, the largish hunk removed from the croissant. Hey, what can I say? Sometimes my tummy rules my brain!).

Score one for the Pearl Bakery and for the whole of Portland. I’d been waiting for this moment, literally, for years. Thank God it finally arrived before I went all-out insane from the consumption of mostly half-assed foods.

Not to play second fiddle, my cappuccino was also exceptional. What struck me first was that this mere single shot cappuccino was better than all the Starbucks coffees, flavored or not. That’s pretty astounding. With their coffee supplied by Batdorf and Bronson roasters, they take the sustainable coffee route, which is admirable. However, I’d rather have something more locally-centered. Either way, the coffee was par excellence!

As I sat, journaling while taking bites from my croissant and sipping my coffee, I looked around and listened while an R.E.M. song played on repeat in the echo chamber that is my head:

Now, I’m not one to sit and spin
Because living well’s the best revenge

Indeed, Michael Stipe, indeed.

Folks, this is only the beginning to my day.

It is rare to not experience life-changing events. Everyone has them in some fashion. September of 2005 proved to be one of those times for me and my family. A sound I never wanted to hear hammered a hole through my self-security. In a matter of weeks, we’d packed our things and found ourselves on the road to Cedar Rapids, IA. The story unravels from there down a twisted and unsettled road to our current home, Carlsbad, CA. It was a very harsh way to make us open our eyes to our situation as it was in Portland at that particular time and that meant it wasn’t good. Something needed to be done.

Several weeks ago I had a melt-down one night. I was just about to obligingly say that I’m not sure what happened to cause it, but, truthfully, I do. It’s simple: my life, our lives, are not in some sort of positive and progressive direction. Suffice it to say that our financials are endlessly stressful and with no real prospect of changing this significantly, a breakdown of some sort was probably inevitable.

I needed a break to think and to mine out the caverns of my blocked mind.

It was Kim’s suggestion to take leave, visit Portland, and visit my mom. Finally, I felt ready for it.

Five years after arriving in Portland with my family and almost three years after being exiled, I was returning. I wasn’t sure what I’d get out of it, but one thing was for sure: I was going to be car-free for a week and I was going to eat my heart out. Walking and eating! The greatest stress relievers in the known world!

I kept a diary as I walked or rode to and from. What follows is a recreation of my diary more suitable for average readers and more readable – my chicken scratch is pain for the eyes.

Readers and Footballers

July 24th, 2008 – my first full day in Portland.

As I rode the MAX blue line (Portland’s light rail system), I came to remember something that had found its escape from my memory: people read here! They read a lot! You can find people reading anything from standard pulp offerings of sci-fi or fantasy to liberally bent books on the doom of America’s democracy and just about anything in between. They read while they walk. They read while they sit in public areas. They read while they wait in line at the banks. There are books everywhere! I even saw an older lady reading a Spanish translation of Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. In fact, I joined the legion of readers reading The Concord Quartet through my entire visit. A fine read, I might add. All the reading (of pulp and non-pulp) might be why Portland has one of the most impressive library systems in the country.

On the downside, the further I was eastward from the Portland downtown area (which I often was, as my mom lives at the very end of the line, east-bound) the more I saw really trashy people and tweakers. Yeah, they make living anywhere east of, say, SE 39th Ave. pretty undesirable. Also, what is it with trashy kids swearing in public? When did this become ok? If I ever heard that my kid was doing this, there’d be soap and a mouth becoming really friendly. Kids, don’t be ghetto. Please.

After a brief visit to Western Culinary Institute, I wandered my way over to NW 23rd Ave. Anyone who knows Portland knows that this area is known more as “Snob Hill” as opposed to Nob Hill. I don’t care what they call it either way. For me, they’ve got some nice shops, great atmosphere, and, of course, some great food. One of my favorite places to eat when I am monstrously hungry is Rose’s Deli. I can recall distinct cravings for big deli sandwiches or chicken soup on chilly, rainy Sundays after attending mass at St. Mary’s Cathedral. We’d remedy these cravings by paying a visit to Rose’s.

Although some of the prices can be steep here, Rose’s attempt at decent, delicious deli foods almost always hits the mark. After being promptly seated after walking in from the sunny, bright outside, I was promptly served water and placed my order for, of course, their signature Reuben. I’ve missed this Reuben for so long, you don’t even know. Even with Milton’s here in Del Mar, Rose’s seemed like a better choice for quality. And, indeed, it was. My sandwich was hot, the sauerkraut was succulent and sharp, and my potato salad was perfectly chilled and creamy. Now, THIS is the Portland I remember: good food and good prices. The service here was top notch, as well.

After grabbing a yummy scoop of hazel nut gelato next door at Mio Gelato (although good, I still remember Staccato Gelato being better, as they proved to be later in my week…), I again wandered around and found myself at PGE Park, where I purchased my ticket to watch the Portland Timbers play against the Carolina Railhawks. I got a midfield ticket, pretty close to the pitch for under $20. Yeah, a hell of a deal. Although the match ended up a 0-0 tie, the entire time was fun thanks to all the nuts in the Timbers Army. Because Portlanders want to do everything right, of course there are a bunch of football nuts who gather at matches to sing songs, swear, light smoke bombs, and, in general, piss off the visiting team while emboldening the home. While the park wasn’t full, the energy emanating from the multiple sections the army digs in creates an excitement unmatched in Portland.

Remember all the bitching I’ve done about the state of culinary offerings in San Diego? All that crying, all the moaning, all the groaning – you can keep most of it. However, my desire for decent food of any kind was assuaged somewhat when I visited the Hillcrest neighborhood of San Diego yesterday. My bold and broad generalizations have come back to bite me, yes, thankfully to a boring Saturday afternoon with my daughter, Hero.

After doing a little shopping in Whole Foods (the better of the two stores in the San Diego area – the one in La Jolla sucks), I decided to take a drive down University Avenue. Allow me to describe Hillcrest, first, before I proceed. It is primarily gay. Hence, it has good food. It’s like a small bite of Portland in the vain grossness of San Diego. Restaurants of all cultures abound. Wine tasting rooms are within walking distance of neighborhoods. Y’know – it’s a cool spot. It’s nothing like where I live in North County San Diego. Imagine the whitest suburbs of any big city packed with chains of all kinds (aside from pockets of environmentalist liberals and surfers) – yeah, that’s me. See why I’m continuously irritated?

Proceeding down University something caught my eye: a sign that said, Taste. Upon further inspection as I crawled along the boulevard, I saw the words “cheese shop.” I made a quick turn back around the block and sped to a spot. A cheese shop? A genuine, honest-to-goodness cheese shop? Balderdash!

Indeed, San Diego had been avenged. Not only was this a good cheese shop, but the owners knew what they were talking about! My first question, always, to cheese mongers is this: Do you have any Portuguese cheeses? They do not pass the test if they say yes, mind you, because the second question is: Can you show me the cheeses and tell me about them? Taste passed on all counts and showed me the two cow’s milk cheeses they had on hand and allowed me to sample them (Hero had a bit, as well. I let her pick the one we purchased). In addition, our host, Mary Palmer, informed me of upcoming tastings they’d be having, alerting me to one specifically centered on Iberian cheeses and wines. My experience from walking in to exiting was perfect and it made me feel a little better about San Diego, even though I have to drive about thirty or so miles to get there. It’s worth it to me to not have to deal with the no-brains at Henry’s.

And, yes, Venissimo, you’re next on my agenda.

Personally, food sourcing and anti-corporate farming are my issues of interest during this race for the presidency. The way I see it, I cast a vote every time I open my mouth to eat something. Food affects almost everything in America. By being conscious of where I get my food, how the food is produced, and who produces it, I am saying to the rest of America, “I am making a choice to support family farms. I am making a choice to help in the restoration of our environment. I am making a choice to support American produced goods. I am making a choice to decrease the use of fossil fuels. I am making a choice to be an American patriot!” Or not.

A Google search of both Hillary Clinton‘s and Barack Obama‘s stance on food-related issues doesn’t reveal much. The most I can find on a specific level are the voting results for the 2007 Farm Bill. However, I have found that Senator Obama has sketched a more cohesive plan for family farmers in reference to his stance on the environment. He also released a statement concerning the recall of 143 million pounds of beef that ended up in many of our nation’s schools for their lunches.

This, though, is not enough.

The impact of food in America reaches far beyond our refrigerators and our local markets. It affects almost everything else we do. It affects everything that happens around us, yet no one really talks about it. Or, they don’t want to talk about it because it is the lynchpin topic and is, by nature, so incendiary that it could take down our entire economic system in a single blow. Fighting for our food and revolting against industrialized production has the power to heave a blow akin to the one hurled by the Boston Tea Party in 1773.

It is that important to me and it should be that important to you.