Portland hunger
I was invited to move to Portland last night. And I’m thinking about it. Of course, I’ve thought about it before. (Wait, I did it before! Wait, does going to college someplace count as “moving there”?) I’ve even floated the idea by my dashing husband. His response: “I love to visit Portland.” I know what that means. That means there’s no way in hell he’s moving there.
If I did live there I would spend a lot of time having drinks at the Secret Society Lounge. Up a non-descript, “I’m going to my therapy appointment” staircase and into a cozy, grown-up bar with a slight speak-easy feel. The breeze blowing in the open window on the warm but not sweltering summer evening made the well-crafted drinks taste all the better.
Then I would head downstairs and go next door to Toro Bravo for dinner. Amazing tapas: oxtail croquettes, mint-stuffed squash blossoms, green olive radicchio salad, squid ink fideos, churros e chocolate. A dish called “drunken pork” was a particular favorite. Chunks of meaty, juicy pork wrapped in bacon served over big but not bitter fava beans. I forgot to ask what made the pork so drunk, but I’m guessing it was gin.
That I ate anything following the afternoon of eating I had was a testament to the power of the human stomach. I split a burger, half a rack of ribs, and a charcuterie and sausage plate for lunch, then stopped in at Ten 01 for some Thai sticky ribs around 5. Of course, my friend had dragged me to “corepower yoga” earlier in the day. Have you heard of this? It’s flow-style yoga in a sauna-hot room (not Bikram!) with sit-ups and various core-building Pilates-mat-work-esque worked into the proceedings. Since my idea of a good time is long swims in cold water by myself, listening to someone tell me what to do in a dark room with a bunch of sweaty people was not so much up my alley, but it was an amazing work-out and I did feel all high afterwards, which was nice. I also felt hungry. Very, very hungry. Burger, ribs, and sausage hungry. Oxtail croquettes and drunken pork hungry.
