A few of my favorite things

I remember a trip to the grocery store, the only Piggly Wiggly on the west coast, when I was a college student in Tacoma. Why was there a Piggly Wiggly in Tacoma? I have no idea, but there was. I went with friends, and on the way, we talked about what we were going to get. After a few minutes, one of more politically-minded friends pointed out, with a good deal of hostility, that I talked only in brand names. I remember I had said I wanted Tim's Potato chips and some Henry's (that would be Henry Weinhardt's Ale -- remember, this was the eighties, and hence before the micro-brew explosion in the Northwest). I'm sure I had dropped some other brand names along the way as well. Her implication was that I was a slave to marketing, a total consumer zombie, a capitalist running dog, and I was mortified. I carefully expunged all brand names from my vocabulary, although I still made sure I got Tim's and Henry's.

In hindsight, however, I'm not sure her implication was correct. Yes, capitalism convinces consumers to pay more for certain names with little respect to quality or design: Gucci, Prada, etc. But there is a difference between brand loyalty and label porn, isn't there? I go to a store here in Portland called Radish Underground and pay a premium because I know the brands carried there are by small designers, made by hand and using sustainable fabrics. That feels like being a responsible, educated consumer. Yes, there is a certain arrogance and pretentiousness (what, me, pretentious?) about name dropping, and I suspect that is what really irked my college associate, but I also think there is a difference between Tim's potato chips and Lays. I want Tim's, for a whole number of reasons, and I'll stick to that.

All of which is a long preamble to a list of the specific stores, foods, and products that have been making my days here in Portland incredibly satisfying and filled with pleasure. I promise I have no financial relationship with any of these companies, except that they all have a good deal of my money.

Stumptown Coffee. I'm here in Portland partially to finish up my ms, so every weekday morning, I walk to the PSU library and write footnotes. On my way there, I stop by Stumptown coffee either for an Americano to go or a cappuccino for there, depending on who is working the machine. They are slow as molasses, but I have never had better espresso, even when I made it for myself back in the Starbucks days. They roast their own coffee, dark the way I like it but less charred than Starbucks has become. They clearly start with superior beans with lots of body and flavor. And then they take incredibly care with the shots, the milk, the proportions. The result is wonderful, strong, sweet, balanced, with a great mouth feel and a lingering bite on the tongue. Yum.

The People's Pig. Portland has over four hundred food carts in over eleven pods, plus some lone wolves, scattered throughout the city. They tend to specialize on an ethnicity or food niche, from Viking to Vegan, and the quality varies from bad -- I made a bad mistake with the most bland, colorless non-Pad Thai I have ever seen last week -- to outstanding. I'm starting to develop a list of traits to look for in a good food cart: a short, tightly focused menu seems to always be a good sign. A big line to order is also a good sign, although a big crowd waiting for their order can be misleading, as it is also a sign of a disorganized kitchen (hence my Pad Thai blunder).  I have my list of ones I want to try: the Frying Scotsman fish and chips and Mobster Meatballs top it. But the problem is, I would have to bypass The People's Pig for something else, and I just don't see that happening.

The People's Pig makes three types of pork sandwiches a day. There's always a pulled pork, a chef's special (I've seen pork chop and bacon sandwiches, and heard about a cubano), and there is always Porchetta. You may remember my love affair with Porchetta from Italy, but I'm telling you, this Porchetta is better. He sources from local, heirloom pigs, and he doesn't roast them whole. Rather, he rubs a loin with herbs and wraps it in a pork belly, and then roasts the package. Each sandwich has some belly and some loin, some arugula and some lemon on a beautiful ciabatta roll. They are almost too much, almost too rich and fatty, but the peppery freshness of the arugula brings it back from the edge. Barely. I could use a little more crispy, chewy cracklings, but other than that, it may be the world's most perfect sandwich. I wonder if the owner would let me open a franchise in Spokane. Or maybe marry him. Really. It is that good.

Continuing on the pork theme, when I get home from the library, I've been snacking on the amazing pork wattle rillette from Chop, found in the Saturday market, on a slice of one of the beautiful loaves from Pearl Bakery. Chop's pates are equally spectacular -- I have also feasted myself on the chicken liver pate with pistachios with incredible happiness. Jeremy, however, is partial to Olympic Provisions' cacciatore salami. He has good taste, as well. The bread at Pearl Bakery is also nearly perfect, the kind of bread with such a great wheaty, yeasty flavor, such an amazing texture, soft and chewy on the inside, crisp and cracking crust, that you don't need anything to enjoy it. Although butter is never bad. And pork rillette, fatty and chunky with a faint whiff of sweet onions and . . . is that allspice? doesn't do it any harm either.

It's a little sad that in such a short time, surrounded by so much amazing food, I've already fallen into a food rut. On the other hand, each of these things gives me intense pleasure every time I sit down to them, and they make so happy to be alive, to have a life that allows me to eat rich, good, relatively expensive food prepared with care and conscience, to have a day filled with intellectual stimulation, satisfaction, and punctuated by pleasure, love, and friends that I am almost overwhelmed by gratitude. I take it back. It isn't sad at all.

I love Portland. It's no surprise, I suppose. Growing up across the river in Vancouver, Portland was the epicenter of cool. It was where I was first exposed to urban, to sophisticated, to cultures different from the one given to me by my parents. I love and respect my parents, and I have adopted an unusually high percentage of their values, priorities and world-view, but I needed to find my own style -- both life-style and fashion style. Both started to form in Portland in the eighties. Then, I returned to the city in the nineties to get my masters at Portland State. In my mid-twenties, that was the time I was learning how to live as an adult, and when I started to amass a household. I used the dining room table I bought off Hawthorn until just a few years ago, and the beautiful chandelier I first obtained in Portland has graced every dining room I have ever owned. Portland formed me during some important years, so it makes sense that it formed me to love it.

On the other hand, there is a lot to love, symbiotic formation or not. This is a city that takes sustainability incredibly seriously, and values above all books, food, and art. What is not to love? I wonder how much Powell's had to do with the ethos of Portland. I think Portlanders loved Powell's, so they got used to thinking in terms of local business early. Also, Portland is aggressively liberal, so it reacted against the anti-intellectualism of the Bush years. In fact, Portland was the only city to have spontaneous protests over the illegality of the first Bush election. As the country become less interested in facts and reason, Portlanders became more educated and engaged.

As for the weather, it just doesn't bother me. Even when it rains, there is a lot of light, especially compared to Spokane in the winter, and when it rains as much as it does here, you just figure out how to do what you like doing in the rain. As an added bonus: lots of really stylish rain jackets!