Before I get underway I should apologise for the suggestion yesterday that I had those three dishes for breakfast. There were a few late night messages checking on the status of my vitals. Now onto the real thing…
Being a single traveller in a big city nothing gives me more pleasure than that of a hand pulled noodle. Luckily there are a few eateries that specialise in this dark art. First stop Grasso, the sister eatery of Lardo and separated by nothing more than a thin sheet of plaster. This is only a recent development in the Portland food scene. Hand crafted spaghetti with breadcrumbs, chili, oil and cheese. At $7 there are memories to last a lifetime. Will be back tomorrow for the pork ragu.
The sequel to this spaghetti (Pacific North) western was Boke Bowl, a ramen peddler who specialises in the good stuff. I visited this when I was last in Portland and thought it was top shelf. Two types of handmade noodles with caramelised fennel and these chewy croutons which I couldn’t make out what they were. This was really nice but probably not as good as I remembered, then I recalled that last time I visited their other location located next to the brewery we had went to. Maybe that had something to do with it?
My last food related visit was across the river in the suburban part of NE Portland, Frank’s Noodle House. Frank’s devotees were gathered around the house (imagine the fasade from The Adamms Family set) for the 5pm sitting. With clockwork precision we were ushered inside and presented with kimchi and diakon reddish. I ordered the chicken noodle extra chilli. Before I could comprehend the tennis balls on the chair legs, in much the same way as Dads cover the tow balls on their cars, the meal came out.
This mass of delectable, chewy noodles was even better than the internet reviews.
After eating twice my bodyweight I decided to drag myself back over the bridge than opt for public transport. My noodle itch had been scratched.
On my way home I came across one of Portland’s ever popular arcade halls. Cast your mind back to 1985 and the pixellated goodness of Pacman. It had the same effect that sugar has on kids today. Back then it was only 20 cents to showcase your skills behind the joystick. Portland doesn’t know the word inflation, games were a quarter (25c). Heaven.
My drug of choice was Mr. Do, the story of a clown who used to battle monsters with nothing more than some superballs and some apples. It was fully operational and my skills came back.
Take that DAZ. Shortly after my record setting achievement the owner came over to ask me for ID. Happy Hour was about to start and apparently my late 30s body doesn’t pass for 21 in the Northern Hemisphere. At my age the only place where I don’t meet the age requirements for entry is a retirement home. My Driver’s License didn’t cut it as it was from a place that left the owner scratching his head. Without my Passport I was marched out of there faster than you can say Donkey Kong.
