Portlandia

Drink  one.

A $3 glass of ESB.  I don’t know what that stands for but it’s a lighter beer.  I picked it as being the least hoppy beer on the hand-written board.  We sip our glasses at Amnesia, a small brewery in Northeast Portland.  The ceilings are tall, the light dim, and the walls steel.  Tall barrels loom behind the bar, slowly distilling the brew that slips between my teeth and under my tongue.  My husband is on the phone with the restaurant that just told us to grab a drink while we wait for our table.  Our table is up. My best friend is goading me to drink so we can eat.  Dan drinks deliberately, savoring the flavor.

Drink two. 

A Malbec, I believe. Dinner begins at Toro Bravo. Liz has raved about this restaurant.  “It is my favorite!” she exclaims.  The menu boasts so many amazing-sounding dishes, it is almost impossible to begin choosing.  The Portland-natives pick the first round of Tapas: salt cod fritters with aioli and butternut squash with crumbled sheep's cheese.  The cod is smooth and silky on my palate, with a bit of crunch to add bite.  I delight in the small nibbles that I share with my friends. Wary of squash, I tentatively scoop some vegetables on my app-sized plate.  It’s the harissa that wins me over.  And, honestly, probably the sheep cheese.  After my first scoop, my second helping is decidedly bigger.  My companions chide me for eating my veggies (for, ashamed to say it, I am infamous in my dislike for the nutrient-rich morsels).  We laugh and clink our glasses together.

Drink three.

Josh tops off my glass and I smile sideways at him.  His eyes flash blue-grey in the dim light of the restaurant.  The red of the expansive walls reflects handsomely off his face.  The two of us order a second round of palate teasers: potatoes bravas, braised salsify with lemon, bacon and cream, and smoked pork rillettes with orange marmalade and toast.  There are two words in this round that I can’t even define upon ordering.  The results are again, stunning.  The four of us cannot stop popping the potatoes in our mouths - hot, perfectly fried and covered in a smart tangy aioli.  Salsify turns out to be albino asparagus without the head; also without the sour displeasing taste.  The lemon butter lends a creamy coating to second vegetable I will consume happily tonight.  When the pork appears, it is surprising: 3 crusty slivers of toast, a pile of orange marmalade and a mini-bowl reminiscent a smaller version of the traditional vehicle for French Onion Soup.  The bowl is filled with a pate-like preparation of pork that we smear on our toast and devour quickly.  We talk of shared memories and chance encounters.  Liz slyly peppers her stories with hints of Portland’s greatness.  She smiles to Josh and Dan - conspirators.

Drink four/five/six?

Our second bottle of wine comes out right before our last go-round of food: squash dumplings with braised lamb and squid ink pasta with hazelnut, anchovy syrup and egg yolk.  The plates are tasting more delicious as they come.  I twirl the pasta around my fork and then my tongue.  The lamb melts in my mouth.  The laughter is louder now.  More frequent.  I’m surrounded by my favorite people and the glow is palpable.  We skip dessert, tip generously and spill out onto the sidewalk in the crisp cold night air.  The breeze smells like pine. 

Drink last.

They present me with a surprise birthday cake from Cold Stone.  It is my favorite kind.  It is wonderful that they thought of it.  The strawberry ice cream seeps into the yellow cake, making it that exact sort of soggy that I always enjoy.  The plate is empty before I know it.  We gather around the puzzle Liz and I started that afternoon and continue our mission.  The glass of port she poured sits next to me as I search for a light brown piece with just a little bit of yellow on the tip.  There are two in’s and two out’s on this piece.  The top-most indentation is wider than the average.  I scan and zero in on it.  It clicks into place and I smile with the satisfaction of accomplishment.  The port is sweet and lingers, reminding my tongue of the ice cream treat it just delighted in. 

When the lamp throws too much glare and the glasses are empty, our eyes start to slip closed and we lean in on each other - huddled together and crouched above a semi-completed depiction of a Santa Claus-esque man bent over his own chest of strange and beautiful toys.  We say our goodnights and fall into our respective beds. 

I curl next to my husband and pass into dreamland in less than a millisecond.