My Spot on the Strip

Acme Coffee

1431 SE 40th

Portland

The crazy thing about coming back to Portland is how much the place is evolving. Every time I touch down at my beloved PDX (best airport in the world, I'm sayin') and sniff the sweetness of the air up there, I get this crazy feeling that I have to see everything. Now. Otherwise I could lose the Portland pulse and not be hip to the game anymore, and that would cause me to freak out.

Take for instance, Hawthorne. SE Hawthorne has always been the street you take your out-of-towner friends to in order to show them what makes Portland different. Crunchy hemp gift stores, used clothing purveyors and of course, the Arabian Nights style Baghdad Theater.

I was tooling down the strip yesterday morning waiting for Biasi to shake the hangover and be ready to bake surprise birthday cakes with me when I ran into the newest cat to make the scene, Ken Sellens.

Ken just moved down from Bainbridge Island, which is a lovely, closeknit community a ferry ride from Seattle. We drank our morning joe and chatted for awhile about staying in the same crazy woman's guest house in Lagos, Portugal, the one where the door never worked and she woke you up at six am to ask whether you'd want the room for another night.

This summer, him and a buddy decided they wanted to open up "a coffee cart" to supplement their artist's incomes and the very next day found an ad on Craig's List for a cafe for rent.

Enter Acme Coffee, which they've set up in an old house just north of Hawthorne on SE 40th. It kinda reminds me of some of the outdoor cafes they have in Austin, Texas where there's big gardens with all kinds of mismatched seating and the general sense that beautiful, artistically genius work is getting accomplished at the tables all around you.

The place is full of functional antiques, like a massive iron fan that they've only turned on once because "it gets pretty intense out here" when it's on. They have blueberry pie.

"We have barbeques out here once a week," Ken tells me. "We close up the cafe, and this just turns into a house. As you know, there's a lot of musicians in this neighborhood, so people come up and play on the porch. This place turns into party central. Well, not really party central."

I want to go to one of these parties. Bad. But I'm doing the SF thing now, and I know that though I'm giving up my spot in P-Town, I'm leaving a vacancy that cool kids like Ken can fill, get their swing at the bikey-coffee-front porch-guitar strumming glory of it all.

I'll always be back to Portland. Even when I can't tell you where the cool bars are anymore. Even when snotty-nosed hipsters tell me and Lauren to move our place at Colonel Sommers Park because "we have a kickball game here. Every Monday. Did you just move here?" I'll still have the wearwithall to turn on my coolkid sneer and ask "where are you from? Ohio?" (nothing against Ohio)

Tear. Growing up. Oh my City of Roses, don't forget your girl!

And I love,

CD

Sigh. In Love.

Who is Ariel Dovas? How can I blog-prentice to her? In San Francisco's hippest neighborhood, she is the hippest of them all. check out her latest blog-sterpiece. If only I had this knack for expressing the zeitgeists of our time.

My Triumphant Debut as a Stoner Film Critic!

I'll be like the Cheech & Chong of Siskel & Ebert!

But seriously folks, here's my very first interview for the San Francisco Bay Guardian, with my editor's photo captions. Be forewarned: it is rated PG-13 and we spend time talking about Mr. T. But it's the beginning of big things, and I knew all the folks at home who are wondering what the devil I'm doing down here in San Francisco will appreciate regardless.

Whoop whoop!
CD

In Which San Francisco Impresses Me With Free Things And I Shoot A Sea Urchin

It was kind of cruel if you ask me. My manager Christian had an invitation to an "Exposicion Exclusivo de Mezcales Artisanales" (Exclusive Exposition of Artisan Mezcals) and he had tacked it to the bulletin board at work to stare at us as we boxed wings and breasts and potato salad.

It was kind of like "look how cool I am, I go to exclusive booze fiestas. Don't you wish people wanted you to drink their artisan mezcal instead of just bag their french fries and wings?" I suppose he felt bad about it (after I affixed a Post-It note to invite that expressed my thoughts on the matter), so yesterday, the day of the fest, he commuted his exclusive invite to yours truly. "Better RSVP now," he cautioned.

So here's me RSVPing.
Voicemail message: "Hi, you've reached bla bla bla. Bla bla bla. If you're RSVPing for the mezcal party, leave your name and the name of the restaurant you represent."
Me: (professional voice) "Hello, this is Caitlin Donohue of _____ restaurant and I'd like to RSVP for two. If you don't call me back I'll assume we're on the list."

It's fair to say I do not make the liquor buying decisions for the restaurant I work for. But, as a hostess two nights a week, I do come into contact with lots of liquor buying guests. Surely, this is a position of influence that artisan mezcal makers cannot well overlook.

It didn't even matter, anyways. Erik and I rolled up on our bikes to a long line in front of the club wherein the party was being held, a line that terminated at two large men who merely sniffed at my Oregon driver's license (I'll admit, the card's seen better days) and waved us through.

Inside we were bombarded with a club stuffed with Mexicana. Everywhere. Necklaces with strobing Mary medallions flashing red and green. Small men wandering about with mariachi guitars. Mayan inspired animal masks I refused to put on (what was this, Eyes Wide Shut?), odd life sized wooden dolls of old men and sheep wearing dresses. Agave plants.

And refreshments! A table full of tamales and tortilla chips, and most importantly, a bar full of Los Danzantes mezcal. For those of you who don't know, mezcal, like tequila is an alcohol made from fermenting the agave plant. But where tequila purveyors remove the pulp and other solids from the agave before putting it all in the still, mezcal is fermenting pulp and all. This lends it a much richer flavor, smokier and spicier than tequila. Mezcal, contrary to popular belief, is the one that gets the worm in the bottle that is said to produce hallucinations.

Agave plant. Looks like an artichoke

Donkey making mezcal. Clever donkey.

I didn't take those two pictures by the way. I don't know who did, either.

This being San Francisco, we couldn't drink the liquor without some trendy gimmick, and true to form the mezcal shooters each had a small piece of sea urchin in the bottom of the glass. I wouldn't say it was the best entree to sea urchin, but whatever, I appreciate the gesture.

So anyways, we got drunk, fed and stocked up on all the Mexican souveniers we didn't buy while we were actually in Mexico. For free! Oh, and a leggy blonde took a photo of Erik and I with her 35mm that I'm sure will immortalize me on some crappy nightlife website as being drunk and awkward-looking.

A job well done. The moral? Pester your boss about anything and everything. This will get results.

Much love,
CD

Slow Food Eat-In

Not sit-in or walk-out or picket line, but eat-in. An eat-in is my kind of protest. This is how we change the world, people: free food.

Between my restaurant gig and a brief internship at Roots of Change, a local food sutainability organization, I've been spending a large chunk of my waking life immersed in the pleasures of a locally sourced diet.

It's easy to do here, San Francisco kicks ass at sustainable food. There are three weekly farmer's markets within a few blocks of our apartment and you can't throw a stick in this town without it landing in someone's beet gazpacho at a new organic restaurant. Michael Pollan is beginning to rival Barack as San Francisco's change-spouting favorite- although the Prez recently gained ground when the First Lady planted a vegetable garden on the White House's front lawn.

Have you seen this thing? More newsworthy than her latest shift dress.

I like this, because food is delicious. Eating has beaten out door-knocking as my favorite way to save the world (yes Mom, I know you have to do both).

This is why on Labor Day the boy and I cooked us a mess of rice and pinto beans, bungeed it to our bike rack and rolled out to the Slow Food Eat-In, a community potluck on a grand scale. It took place right in front of San Francisco's majestic City Hall to publicize the Child Nutrition Act, which is leglislation due to be reauthorized soon that can amp up our country's commitment to healthy food in public schools. Keep all the kiddies bright-eyed, bushy-tailed and diabetes-free!

Yesterday was a sunny indian summer kind of day and there were several long tables dotted with contributions from our fellow activists. This being San Francisco, home of the foodie fanatic, most offerings were a bit more sophisticated than the twenty-something standard we'd brought. I'm talking coconut quinoa with squash, massive wheels of sharp yellow artesan cheese, gorgonzola studded heirloom tomatos, cabbage salad with tangerines and crunchy japanese noodles... I could go on, but you get it. It was a nice spread.

You can't really blame the park's regular occupants for forgetting to bring a casserole of their own to contribute, and to be fair it did look somewhat like an outdoor soup kitchen. At one point a tall white guy in a soiled Giants hat walked up with his tablecloth bedecked lady friend and began addressing the Tupperware containers in a manner that suggested it had been a long time since their last roasted local lamb shish kabob. A Slow Food volunteer arrived to address the situation.

"So, sir, this is an event to publicize the Child Nutrition Act... It's for healthy food in schools? Did you bring a dish to share?" Her political teachings met a blank stare from the would-be activist. She tried a different tack. "So, like, I can't have you... taking 25 things and then there won't be any for- try to not take too much, okay?" She turned, and, satisfied with the exchange both resumed their duties, the volunteer returning to the seed-planting table and the hobo to making a large dent in the mushroom tabouli. Truly heartwarming to see individuals from distinct walks of life coming together to make a difference.

We left after listening to speeches from a kid from a recent San Francisco high school grad who had planted a kitchen garden on campus, a stoked politician and a doctor who'd written a book on the wisdom of the indigenous diet. We were up some oregano and spearmint seedlings, but down the Tupperware container that had housed our rice and beans, which seemed to have been appropriated by a fellow warrior for food justice who wanted to bring the good word to his buddies' bellies in the Tenderloin.

Anything for the cause,
Sister Caitlin

Paramount Theater

Erik scored some last minute tickets via Craig's List ("craigslist"? What is the proper grammerfication of that name? Ridiculous the amount of times I've had to use it in professional correspondence) to Mos Def and Erykah Badu's show at the Paramount Theater in downtown Oakland on Friday.

And we can talk about the show. What do you know about Erykah Badu live? If there is a diva of our day, it is Erykah. The lady rocks my world in dashiki-and-hair-wrap mode just as much as she did in her 50's belted dress, four inch heels and tight afro at the concert. She holds down. She opened for Mos Def, which I thought was a questionable order of operations until the Mighty Mos took the stage and killed it. In rolled up slacks, old penny loafers and pink striped socks. 'Ms. Fat Booty' and a moonwalking rendition of Billie Jean. I think hip hop artists are contractfully obligated to do one MJ cover at every public appearance these days.

So the concert was great. But what set the performances into the 'epic' stratosphere was their setting. The Paramount Theater. The most beautiful venue I've ever seen:

Photo by BWChicago

Art Deco porno. Excessive elegance. I was underdressed, which is a distressing occurance in the life of Caitlin. The above is the view of the stage from the nosebleeds, which is roughly where we were sitting until my enterprising boyfriend decided it wasn't good enough for up and coming A-Listers. Fast forward twenty minutes and we were in the third row, ground floor with ample room to get down for Mos Def. Thusly I am able to comment on the intricacies of his wardrobe for you, the reader at home.

You Are Very Welcome,

CD

P.S. Guess who is the newest intern at the San Francisco Bay Guardian, the defining independent alternative weekly in the United States? That'd be Caity D! Check out their culture blog , where I will ostensibly be posting to on a mega-regular basis in a few weeks.