I’ve just got back from Portland, Oregon. I went for a travel story: five nights, 17 hours up and 15 hours down. It was quite exciting: on the way up I managed to scam my way into the United First Class Lounge at LAX with nothing but an Air New Zealand Koru Club card and a smile to show for it, and then when I was there I ate about as much as I’ve ever eaten in four days – apart from perhaps Malaysia, which will go down in history as my week of Mr Creosote.
It seems that everyone in Portland (pop, two million) has moved there within the past 10 years. It’s a great college town and it’s also attractive for “creatives” seeking an easier lifestyle than other parts of the West Coast where you need to sell both kidneys and an eye in order to buy a house – property values have soared and condos have been built as people have rejuvenated this formerly run-down blue-collar city. It’s the home or the design centre for companies like Nike and Columbia and as a result, every third car is a Volvo with a bike rack on the back.
As a result, everyone seems to be aged under 35 and is highly, excitably, obsessed with food. This has resulted in a ridiculous restaurant scene rivalling some of the best eating cities on the planet: you really do feel like you’re in a city twice or three times the size. It has 32 craft breweries – so the IPA, I can assure you, is excellent – and a number of craft distilleries. The Willamette Valley, about an hour away, makes remarkable pinot noir. In everything, the emphasis is on the local, always.
But the best thing about Portland, though, the food carts. Across the rest of the States, food carts – portable kitchens in trailers with a window, which usually serve grease with a small amount of protein included for free – are reserved for the drunk, the homeless, the poor or those who find themselves ludicrously hungry at odd hours.
In one of those wonderfully extreme American happenings, Portlanders have gentrified the food cart and now, trendy foodcarts are exploding on deserted lots across Portland. It has all the excitement that comes with street food, but the safety of knowing they have to get a hygeine certificate for the kitchen and they won’t be washing the dishes in the gutter.
A few years back and particularly through the recession, chefs started opting out of long hours and crap pay to open food carts, serving stunning food – much of it made completely from scratch. One of my favourites was Addys Sandwich Bar, which I squeezed in the morning I left: a dark, dense country pate on crunchy, chewy baguette with cornichons and homemade mustard. It was perfectly balanced, and I ate it all and was sorely tempted to get another – why wouldn’t you, for $5.50? Just yesterday I was clearing out my bag and found the wrapper from it, and I sighed.
I also ate Mexican – sadly average, but I’m told there are good ones; late-night potato poutine, perfect Belgian fries slathered in (a little too much) tangy gravy from Potato Champion, which is open until 3am; a chickpea sandwich from Garden State; lemon ice from the Oregon Ice Works, which I loved mainly for the name and also because it was hot and the ice was sour. Then, there was a really terrific Som Tum from a brilliant Thai stall downtown – green papaya salad with a sweet/sour dressing; it came with succulent barbecued pork. I haven’t had one that good since I was last in Thailand.
I wonder if Fedex does food?
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