Eateries

The idiot spends most of her time either eating or exercising, fatrolling on an interminable cycle of greed to guilt to greed to guilt ... to (always provisionally end with) greed. I obligingly trailed her on this silly circuit whilst we were in Oregon, and spent most of my time complaining. But, to be honest, we went to some great places, some of which should certainly be shared. Portland's foodcart thing is no secret, and I wish we had been there long enough to try out more of them. Restaurants, too, proliferate. Everyone there is super foodie, and I think this accounts for the idiot's marked affection for the city.

NICHOLAS (Lebanese): The website says the restaurant has just celebrated its first 20 years of business. Not to be scoffed at; 20 years is ancient history for west coast America, haw haw. Getting a table can take a while, it being both tiny and very popular. We go with about ten of the idiot's friends, in order to attenuate the Sunday Fear at the end of an unproductive weekend. The waiters greet you with a ceremony of flying saucer pita breads, and the portions which follow are ridiculous: individual hummus dollops the size of your face, five or so falafel, beef kebabs, tabbouleh, pies etc. We lick our plates clean, before retiring to the Spanish House for whiskey and gossip.

ST. JACK: The idiot perseveres with the weekly Gray Fund lotteries, and we win a spot on the trip to St. Jack restaurant, which opened less than a year ago (NB: Don't go on the website for this one - its flashplayer just made my computer freeze up.) Half of the property is a patisserie and the other half is a posh French restaurant. They close off the restaurant to accommodate the Reed Gray Funders for a three-course brunch. We have croissants, pain au chocs, frangipane and cherry brioche for starter, then toasty things and cheese for main, and a chocolate mousse with boozy cherries for dessert. The pastry chef makes the mousse in front of our very eyes. It is magic.

POTATO CHAMPION: Americans call them fries, we call them chips. Whatever, this is the best and most almighty matchstick-potato-crisped-in-oil you will ever eat, served in a paper cone and located in the foodcart pod on 12th and Hawthorne.

NECTAR FROZEN YOGHURT: SE Bybee and Milwaukie intersection. The idiot, Stephanie and Kerstin use it as their base for film project 'briefing'. I tag along, and suck the peanut butter yoghurt straight from the dispenser. Am forcibly removed. They don't do frozen yoghurt like this in England, though, with about 6 changeable flavours and a pantheon of toppings. Graham cracker dust, for instance. Everything is self-service and priced according to weight.

LUCKY STRIKE: Chinese restaurant on Hawthorne. We deprive ourselves of lunch and starve through the Friday JOFM class (James and Ozick/Faulkner and Morrison) in order to build up an appetite for Lucky Strike's Happy Hour (3-6pm). Dan Dan noodles, hot as you like. Modest servings, but very very delicious.

WOLF AND BEAR'S: A somewhat isolated foodcart on SE Morrison, which we at last locate after an hour's circumambulation. Walk down Belmont because Belmont is lovely, and then cut up to Morrison on 20th (I think it's 20th). Under normal circumstances, I would eschew the idea of eating at an entirely vegetarian foodcart - god they might even be vegan - but Wolf and Bear's is something surprising and beautiful. Order a humongous falafel pita. Beware of crying in public.

THE ORIGINAL HOTCAKE HOUSE ON POWELL: A hotcake, it transpires, is just a big scotch pancake. But in spite of this, the Hotcake House retains its legendary reputation, perpetuated by students who use its '7 days a week / 24 hours a day' guaranteed opening to full effect. It was established in 1955, and the interior décor is accordingly diner-ised. Why the idiot waits until her final month in Portland to discover the joys of the Hotcake House, I have no idea. And even then all she orders is a strawberry milkshake. Granted, the milkshake is about 30cm tall, contains more than 5 scoops of ice cream, half a pint of whole milk, and 4 inches of whip on the top, but it does not come close to registering on the scale of my meal: philly steak omelet, 2 blueberry hotcakes, hashbrowns and fries on the side, and a bit o' gravy. Washed down, be assured, with a DIET coke.

WHIFFIES: Do as we do: miss the number 14 bus down Hawthorne, walk instead, preferably on a sunny evening, drop into Excalibur comics and feel very out of place, then turn into the foodcart pod on 12th. Choose Whiffies Fried Pies, always. Does what it says on the tin.

PORTLAND FARMER'S MARKET: There are many farmer's markets in Portland, but the really posh one happens every Saturday on the PSU campus. Like all the best farmer's markets, you can eat a three course lunch and pay absolutely nothing. All you require is an aggressive cocktail stick and sharp elbows.

FLAVOUR SPOT WAFFLES: It is quite unusual to find a foodcart with more than one location, but Flavour Spot has three different carts dotted around the city. The waffles here are referred to as 'dutch sandwiches', which basically means a waffle bent in half to make a sandwich. The idiot orders the THB (smoked turkey, havarti cheese and bacon) with maple butter. I order the Nut Fluffer (peanut butter and mallow fluff). Respective meat and sugar sweats ensue.

SWEET PEA BRULEE: Foodcart on Belmont, selling the crackliest creme brulee you ever ate.

OLD TOWN PIZZA: We began or 'underground' tour of Portland at Old Town Pizza, but never got the chance to eat anything. The building itself is apparently steeped in history and ghosts and what-have-you, and there's a nice candlelit vibe in the seating area. The idiot and I take the mother there when she comes to visit Portland. En route, walking through Chinatown, a man with a rickshaw - no kidding, not stereotyping - tries to persuade us away from Old Town's soggy crust and into Pizza Schmizza. We ignore him and have an incredible meal.

RUBY JEWEL SCOOP SHOP ON MISSISSIPPI: Ruby Jewel (s?) sells their famous ice cream sandwiches across the city, but the scoop shop on Mississippi is where to spend a gluttonous afternoon. The idiot ploughs valiantly through a 'double scoop' portion of pistachio and cookies and cream, with peanut brittle spilling off the top. FYI, 'double scoop' in Americanese can in fact translate to mean FOUR scoops in standard English. The idiot likes to reprimand me when I spread 'false' rumours about eating habits and portion sizes over here. But, when faced with the double scoop, she concedes a defeat.

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