Tag Archives: Portland Oregon

Empty Skies and Reflections

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If all goes as planned – with technology, you never know – I will be on the road, headed home on the 10th anniversary of 9/11 when this post is published. I’ve had to do a little bit of pre-planning to ensure it happens. Gotta love the scheduled post feature! Here’s the deal: I have been blogging, on and off, in one place or another for a little over ten years. I have almost everything I’ve ever written saved, except for a six-month stretch in 2003. I rarely go back and read the old stuff anymore; those words belong to a different person. However, I did want to share what I wrote immediately following 9/11. I was still stunned – I think we all were – and thought the world as we knew it was coming to an end. In some ways that happened, as anybody who flies a lot can attest, but fortunately things weren’t as dire as I feared they would be. Still, I find it fascinating to look back on what I wrote one decade ago. Here it is.

The Empty Skies – 9/12/2001

Courtesy of lindy1950.tripod.com.

I stood in the warehouse at work this afternoon, staring toward the heavens. Minutes passed, with nothing but a blanket of unbroken blue overhead. If this doesn’t sound very unusual, it is. My office is located on Airport Way in Portland. PDX is a few miles to the west, and we are directly beneath the flight path. Every few minutes on most days, a jumbo jet rumbles by overhead, either taking off to the east or landing to the west. It’s a noisy place to work, but you get used to the constant drone of the airliners day in and day out. Today, and yesterday, there was nothing but an eerie silence. The quiet, which normally would be welcome, came with a heavy price, for it served as a constant reminder of the tragedy that had befallen our great nation. And then, in the distance, a roaring noise. I craned my neck skyward, searching for a sign that things were returning to normal. A 747, perhaps. Even a commuter plane would have been welcome. A moment later, an airplane appeared in the sky. A jet fighter, a slate-gray F16 from the Air National Guard, raced by directly overhead. Several seconds behind, a companion jet followed. This isn’t exactly odd; once a day these same jets take off on training exercises, just one more plane in a steady and constant stream of air traffic. But today was different. Today, these were the only airplanes in the sky – and I knew they weren’t merely flying training exercises. This was the real deal, marking the beginning of the New Reality, and the sad end of the Old America. In the New Reality, nobody is ever safe. America’s borders can be breached. Death and destruction can find us in our own backyards. Already I grieve for the Old America, for the comforts and security she provided, even if they were false. Sometimes, ignorance is bliss. I am saddened that my children will never know the innocence that nurtured me for thirty-two years. Outside my house, a flag blows in the breeze, a symbol of my love and support for our great nation. Word is, people have been scrambling to find American flags, and many stores have sold out. I say, shame on those people for not already owning a flag. Mine will fly indefinitely, perhaps long after the last golden leaves have fallen from the trees, and winter’s chill has descended upon us. It’ll fly for however long it takes us to show the world that America’s spirit cannot ever be broken. With a flag flying dutifully, the skies somehow don’t seem quite so empty. God Bless America.

Post Script: I ended up flying that flag every day for one year. I never took it down; it weathered sun and wind and rain and snow and ice, fluttering in the breeze or resting still, 24 hours a day. I know you’re supposed to take the flag down at night, but I kept mine up to make a statement, finally removing it on September 12, 2002. It was an extremely patriotic time in my life, one rarely matched since (though my road trip across America this summer sparked a great sense of pride, as well). 

Dude, Where’s My Car?

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There’s a Seinfeld episode called “The Parking Garage” where our intrepid foursome vainly search for Kramer’s car in a parking garage, but can’t remember where he parked it. Kramer is lugging around a heavy air conditioner, Elaine has a bag of goldfish that will die soon, George has to meet his parents by 6:15 to take them out for a celebratory anniversary dinner, and Jerry has to go to the bathroom very badly. Hours pass before they finally locate the car, and both Jerry and George end up arrested for public urination while Elaine’s goldfish die. And then the car won’t start. (Side note: Seinfeld was brilliant. I miss it). In an example of life imitating art, I found myself in a similar situation yesterday.

I had met up with some friends-slash-business-associates at Powell’s Books that morning. Heidi and Ross, from Sacramento Book Review, were in town to meet up with Chris from Portland Book Review and to take a mini-vacation. Though I’ve worked with Heidi and Ross for years, having originally gotten to know Heidi through her online diary/blog, this was the first time we’d met. The power of the internet never ceases to amaze me; through her writing, I felt like I knew Heidi intimately, and we hugged each other and chatted away like old friends the moment we were introduced. I have been blogging, in one form or another, on and off for ten years now, and have met a handful of people in real life. (Literally: there have been five). These folks have become friends, confidantes, business partners, and lovers. (Not all of them fall into every category, of course). I have found that friendships forged online and maintained over the years are every bit as strong as those that develop in a more traditional manner. Growing up an Air Force “brat” and moving around every few years, I never made lasting friends with anybody from my childhood. It’s made me somewhat of a loner in my adult life, so I value and cherish the friendships I have collected in recent years.

We talked for a good long while in Powell’s, browsed for a bit, and left. I’d arrived before anybody else, so I grabbed a paperback off the shelf – something to thumb through while waiting for the others in the in-store coffee shop – and got so engrossed in the book (T.C. Boyle’s Talk, Talk) that I ended up buying it, continuing a longstanding tradition of never leaving Powell’s without making a purchase of some sort.

A couple of cool things about Powell’s Books, which I mention frequently here because it’s my favorite Portland hangout: it used to be a car dealership, and you can still see evidence of that amidst the books.

Powell's Books

The Blue Room in Powell's used to contain used cars.

And, the men’s bathrooms have upscale, literate graffiti lining the grout between the tiles. I call it groutffiti. I first noticed it years ago, and always get a chuckle out of it. Here’s just one example. Others include “Grout at the devil,” “The Grout Gatsby,” “Grout of Africa,” etc.

Powell's Books

Groutffiti at Powell's.

After Powell’s, we headed to the Deschutes Brewery for lunch. I was intrigued enough to try their daily special – a grown-up version of a Sloppy Joe, served open-faced on Texas toast and topped with grated cheese and crispy onion straws. There was a bottle of Secret Aardvark Habanero Sauce to dip my fries into, and since I don’t like “real” beer, I opted for the “root” version. Great meal, great conversation, and Ross picked up the tab. Thanks, buddy. From there we proceeded to Voodoo Doughnut, another Portland institution I’ve mentioned before. When we walked the nine blocks or so to get there, it was like that scene out of National Lampoon’s Vacation where Clark Griswold and family arrive at Wally World after a long cross-country trek, only to find out the park is closed. Voodoo is undergoing an expansion and remodel and, even though their website had indicated it would reopen by May 30, was in fact nowhere even close to being ready for business as the interior was gutted. So we took Ross’s rental car and drove to the east side location, Voodoo Too. Waited in line thirty minutes for doughnuts, but it was totally worth it. I took a box home for my kids and parents, and later enjoyed a Maple Blazer Blunt, a sugar doughnut made to resemble a lit joint. Great message I was sending the kids, eh?

Voodoo Doughnut, Maple Blazer Blunt

In which I attempt to win the coveted Father of the Year award.

But back to the parking garage.

After leaving Voodoo Too, Ross and Heidi dropped me off next to Powell’s, and I walked a block or two to the garage where I had parked my car. I remembered that I was on Level P3, but that was about it. I had exited across the street from a piano store, but I wandered around for quite awhile, unable to find that store. You have to understand, the underground parking garage is enormous, and Portland’s street blocks are small, so there are entrances and exits to the same garage all over the place, in seemingly random spots, doorways leading to the underground labyrinth sandwiched between shops in a three- or four-block radius. I gave up on finding the door from which I had exited, and decided instead to enter the garage from where I had driven in, figuring I could just descend to level three and find my car from there.

Only, level three is massive, as I quickly learned. I wasn’t armed with an air conditioner or about-to-expire fish, but I was carting around a big pink box of doughnuts and the book I had purchased from Powell’s. And I was dressed in layers. And it was really warm. Every time I turned a corner, expecting to find my car, I’d come up empty. I walked around blindly for a good fifteen minutes, wondering how many freakin’ corners there could possibly be in the garage. I’d travel a good distance, stop, look around, decide that somehow I must have missed my car, and then retrace my steps, turning left at this particular juncture rather than right. This place was like the maze in Stanley Kubrick’s The Shining, and though I wasn’t being pursued by a hatchet-wielding madman, my heart did start to beat rather frantically as I realized that I was never, ever going to find my damn car and a sense of panic set in. Much like George, I had to be somewhere at a certain time in order to pick up my kids. And worse, like Jerry, I wouldn’t have minded happening upon a restroom at that point. Seconds away from unleashing that most primal of instincts – hot, salty tears – I rounded yet another corner and there she was, the ol’ ride. Salvation. I have never been so happy in my life to see a Hyundai, let me tell you. Fortunately, when I turned the key, she roared to life.

“Anybody ever lose their car down here?” I asked the attendant as I was paying. I figured it was probably something that happened all the time. They must have some emergency plan in place to assist those who had forgotten the whereabouts of their vehicles.

“Never,” she said.

Which made me feel pretty stupid.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that…

The Dream Of The 90s Is Alive

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“Do you remember the 90s? People were talking about getting piercings and getting tribal tattoos, and people were singing about saving the planet and forming bands? There’s a place where that idea still exists as a reality: Portland. Remember when people were content to be unambitious and sleep ’til eleven and just hang out with their friends and you’d have no occupations whatsoever, maybe working a couple hours a week at a coffee shop?”

“I thought that died out a long time ago.”

“Not in Portland. Portland is a city where young people go to retire.”

This was the catchy opening dialogue to the debut episode of Portlandia, a new half-hour sketch comedy show on IFC starring Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein. It’s been getting a lot of buzz around here because…well… this is Portland. A trendy, hip city ripe for skewering. We were, perhaps, curious to see our beloved town through the eyes of outsiders. I, for one, was very interested to learn how the rest of the country views my humble, proud city. I had programmed my DVR weeks ago to catch the premiere. A show about the quirky nature of Portland’s bohemian culture, starring the guy who plays Obama on Saturday Night Live and the former lead singer for a rockin’ indie band seemed custom made just for me.

I love Portland, Oregon. More so than almost anybody I know. And while I can’t say I’m from here originally, it feels like home in a way that no other place ever did. I lived a nomadic childhood, thanks to a father in the Air Force. I had no roots. In the mid-90s, when the company I worked for decided to open a sales office in Portland, I begged for an opportunity to come up here and run the inside operations. That’s how passionate I was about moving to the Pacific Northwest. It had always beckoned to me, a siren song from a cloud-choked evergreen utopia, even though I had never set foot here. There was just something about the place – the incessant rain, the obsession with coffee, the laid-back flannel lifestyle, the amazing music, the gorgeous scenery – that appealed to me. I originally envisioned Seattle as my destination, but as much as I love our bigger cousin to the north, I am happy that I ended up in Portland, instead. In the fall of 1994 I got the promotion I coveted, and relocated to Portland with my then-wife. More than 16 years later the job is history and the wife an “ex,” but I am still here – and I can’t ever see myself living anyplace else. I think a part of me would die if I ever moved away.

Fred Armisen and his merry band of misfits hitting the streets of Portland. (Courtesy of tvguide.com).

That dream of the 90s that Fred so eloquently describes? It’s spot-on – I remember those days like they were yesterday. Maybe that’s because I live in Portland and, just as he declares in the opening scenes, it really still is like that here. Every bit of it is true – the tattooed and pierced masses, the earth-first attitude, the cool bands, the artists and entrepreneurs and hipsters with a devil-may-care philosophy that is equal parts optimism and naivete. Living in the moment and being true to yourself is more important than ending up shackled to a routine and selling your soul for a fancy car and a big house.

The dream of the 90s is alive in Portland.

I mean, look at me, for example. I’m unemployed, staying up late and sleeping in, bringing home a few bucks through some writing gigs – and I’m thoroughly content and happy. I am too busy pursuing my dream to worry about the future. I will be successful. Mark my words, remember?

By the way, one of those gigs involves writing a monthly article for Portland Book Review called Rose City Unwrapped. It’s my own creation, my pride and joy – my version of a love letter to Portland. Check it out if you’d like.

“So from what I can surmise, what you’re positing, Portland’s almost an alternative universe. It’s like Gore won – the Bush administration never happened. It’s almost like cars don’t exist…people ride bikes, or double decker bikes, they ride unicycles, they ride trams, they ride skateboards.”

Right on, Carrie Brownstein. (In case you’re unfamiliar with Carrie, she helped form Sleater-Kinney, a hard-charging indie rock band in 1994; they made a big splash on the local scene but disbanded in 2006. I love their music, particularly “Jumpers”). Another great Stumptown summary that hits the mark. Carrie said in an interview with the New York Times, “The strange thing we all noticed, is no matter how far out on a limb we went, we always ran into that person within two days.” So there you go.

Portlandia unleashes a bunch of other stereotypes that lovingly poke fun at Portland. How true are they? Let’s take a look…

1. Portland is home to a lot of vegans. This is true, although I am certainly not one of them. I love pigs and cows far too much to ever be content eating stuff you pluck from the ground. I’ve always wondered if vegans have a moral issue with fishnet stockings? Voodoo Doughnut devotes a good portion of their menu to vegan selections. Me? I always opt for the bacon maple bar.

2. Portland is a utopia for hippies. Most definitely. It’s one of the things I love about the city! There is probably more tie-dye and peace sign paraphernalia per capita than anywhere else in the country (though San Francisco may give us a run for our money). Stroll through the Saturday Market sometime if you don’t believe me.

3. Portland diners are snobby “foodies” obsessed with organic foods and the farm-to-table movement. Again, I’d have to agree. We have a ton of great restaurants that receive nationwide critical acclaim, and yes, they do seem obsessed with sourcing locally-grown, organic meats and produce. Even our beloved fast-food chain, Burgerville.

4. People in Portland are avid bike riders. Without a doubt – and in all kinds of weather, too. Bicyclists impress me and annoy me all at once. I’m impressed with their dedication to riding everywhere, and annoyed when I get stuck behind them or have to swing wide left to pass them.

5. All the hot girls wear glasses. Maybe not all of them, but a good proportion, nevertheless. I have no idea why the “sexy librarian” look is so big in Rip City, but there’s no denying it.

6. Flannel has never gone out of style. You see it all the time. Spring, summer, fall, winter. There’s usually some combination that includes Birkenstocks and acid-washed jeans, as well. My uniform du jour at home: flannel shirt over a t-shirt.

7. Everybody has a beard. Fact: the West Coast Beard & Mustache Championship is being held this weekend at the Crystal Ballroom in Portland. ‘Nuff said.

That’s only the tip of the iceberg. I’m sure future episodes will address additional stereotypes, like the constant rain and our obsession with coffee and the weed-friendly mindset. As far as nailing the vibe of our fair city, I’d say they are batting 1.000 (although I did not realize we are a hotbed for bird-themed art). They’ve only made six episodes, and there’s no guarantee that there will be more, but for now I am enjoying Portlandia and look forward to seeing what else Fred and Carrie dish up.

We Portlanders are an independent bunch of nonconformists who don’t hide behind our labels so much as embrace them. The City of Roses may be a paradise for slackers, but its very denizens are not above making fun of themselves.

Even if Portlandia doesn’t attract a nationwide audience, it’s already a hit here, where it counts.

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Have Yourself A Merry Little Car Bomb

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Portland's official 2010 Christmas tree

I didn’t realize when I decided, on a whim, to take the kids to Portland’s 26th annual Christmas tree lighting ceremony, I’d nearly end up the victim of a terrorist attack. That would have been a real bummer; imagine if I’d been blown to bits during my first-ever tree-lighting experience. Talk about putting a damper on the holidays. Thank God for the FBI, that’s all I’ve got to say.

The Portland terrorist plot is serious stuff. We’re making national news, and not in a good way. The “mastermind” behind this, Mohamed Osman Mohamud, said, “I want whoever is attending that event to leave dead or injured.”

Not to nitpick the finer details, you Somali-born whacko, but if you’re dead, you aren’t leaving, except in a body bag.

I’m pretty surprised humble little Portland, Oregon would be the target for a terrorist attack in the first place. As far as big cities go, it’s pretty safe. I’ve walked the streets at night, alone, before and never given it a second thought. The worst that ever happened? I had to step around some guy on a street corner who was playing the theme from Star Wars on his saxophone for spare change. More “charming” than “alarming” in my opinion. And it’s exactly what I love about the city in the first place.

I suppose if he had pulled off this Portland terrorist plot, I would have ended up a victim, one way or another. Turns out we were sitting just a few hundred yards from where the van was parked, at the corner of Sixth and Yamhill. Had those explosives in there been real, we’d have been in a world of hurt. At the very least, I might have had that holiday eggnog pouring out all the shrapnel holes in my body, cartoon-style, whenever I went to take a sip.

I’d been warned in advance about going, but for a different reason. On Thanksgiving, my parents mentioned the tree-lighting ceremony here in Vancouver, Washington. “I’d rather go to Portland,” I proclaimed.

“Why?” my mom asked. “There are weird people there.”

I tried to explain how I’m a Portlander at heart, but I don’t think they got it. On Friday, when I told my kids the plan, they said, “Why? There are weird people there.”

OK, for the record, there are weird people everywhere. Mayberry Vancouver is no exception. And you know what? I like the weird people in Portland. I’m dead serious. A few months ago I was walking downtown one afternoon and ended up literally in the middle of an argument between two homeless people. I smiled as I listened to them hurl insults back and forth. It was kind of cute, the way they were competing for that particular street corner as their “home turf.” And last year, while waiting in line for a maple bacon bar at the incredible Voodoo Doughnut, I was serenaded by a flash-mob type of rap group while watching a guy in a cape walk by. I’m telling you, you can’t find entertainment that good on TV. These people are simply marching to the beat of their own drummers, and that’s something I both admire and respect. Then again, I’m a writer, so I’m a bit mad myself. Besides, our unofficial slogan is, Keep Portland Weird. I’m all for that! Sure, I could have gone to the Vancouver tree-lighting ceremony instead, but…yawn. It would have paled in comparison. Portland is in my blood. I go downtown all the time. I love the big-city vibe, the flanneled and bearded and pierced masses, the urban hipness and funkiness that defines the Rose City. The fact that I live in Washington is a moot point. Portland is just across the river, and I feel an affinity for the place that is impossible to describe to the outsider. Or even the insider, for that matter. A while ago, I was telling a friend and former coworker about a weekend adventure I’d had in Portland, and his response? “I never go to Portland. There are weird people there.”

Really? You don’t say…

Anyway, I was stoked to head downtown and check out the tree-lighting thingamajig. I’d never done it before, even though I’ve lived here for 16 years now. In the past, I let laziness get the better of me. I didn’t want to deal with the notoriously fickle late-November weather (typically rainy and cold). Or the traffic. Or the parking. Or the crowds. This year, I decided to suck it up and go for it. Being unemployed, I’ve spent way too much time sitting around the house, staring at the walls. If ever there was a year to get out there and check it out, 2010 was it, I figured.

The ceremony was scheduled to start at 5:30, but because “thousands of people” would be in attendance, the website online suggested arriving around 4:00. (The website did not make any distinction about “weird” people and “normal” people. I figured there’d be a good mix). So we set out about 3:40. Normally traffic would be a bitch at that time of day, but it was apparent most people had the day off, because we never even slowed down. I found a parking garage just a few blocks from Pioneer Courthouse Square, and the kids and I arrived there about 4:15. There was already a decent-sized crowd, but we staked out a good spot with a great view, and settled in. It was about 45 degrees and overcast, but luckily, the rain that had been falling earlier in the day had ceased. There was entertainment, courtesy of the Pacific Youth Choir and local band Pink Martini, who were performing Christmas songs. It didn’t take long to get into the spirit of the occasion.

A bunch of people around me were drinking Starbucks, and there was a bit of a nip in the air, so I asked the kids if they’d be kind enough to fetch dear ol’ dad a vanilla latte. I slipped them $10 and told them to “get something good for yourselves, too.” They were then gone thirty minutes, during which time I veered perilously close to panicking, as darkness descended and the crowd multiplied. I questioned the wisdom of letting them wander off downtown on their own, imagining worst-case scenarios galore (although my imagination isn’t quite as wild as it could have been, because none of those scenarios involved explosives-packed vans), but the Starbucks is right there in Pioneer Courthouse Square, so I reasoned they couldn’t get into too much trouble. Finally, they showed up with my hot coffee in hand. Whew. And did it hit the spot.

While we were waiting, volunteers passed out holiday songbooks for the “community sing-along.” The kids unceremoniously declared that they would not be caught dead singing. I guess they’re “too cool” for that kind of thing. I rolled my eyes and, when the ceremony started at 5:30, belted out “fa la la la la’s” with the rest of the assembled masses, while my kids pretended they did not know me. Whatever. It’s called getting into the Christmas spirit, guys! Portland’s mayor, Sam Adams, talked to the crowd for a bit, and then – at 6:10 PM – he flipped the switch, officially lighting the Portland Christmas tree. It was a spectacular sight – a 75′ Douglas fir festooned with cheery holiday lights.

Portland is in my blood!

There was more singing, but the crowd was already dispersing, so we decided to leave, too. After all, we’d been sitting there on the brick steps of the courthouse square for over two hours. We crossed Sixth Avenue, which was roped off and teeming with police officers. There was also a white van parked there, which at the time I barely gave a second glance. I just figured they’d closed the street to allow the massive crowd to cross without waiting for traffic. We took a detour back to the car, because I wanted to get a picture of the iconic Portland sign outside the Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall at night. Plus, we were looking for someplace to grab a bite to eat, but there wasn’t anything kid-friendly or, more importantly, cheap nearby, so we wandered back to the car and stopped at Boppin’ Bo’s – a 50s-style malt shop a few minutes from home – for burgers and fries. I figured, after working my ass off cooking up a Thanksgiving feast the day before, that I deserved a break. (The exploding turkey, by the way, turned out delicious – moist and flavorful. I guess brining really does make a difference!).

Ironically, during the car ride home, K1 – who had refused to sing a note during the festival – suddenly lost his shyness and began belting out Christmas tunes. Why he wouldn’t do this while in the midst of a crowd of 10,000 is beyond me. I turned the music up, because seriously, I was caroled out by that point.

All in all, we had a great time downtown, and I’ve already vowed to make the Christmas tree lighting ceremony a new, annual tradition. That’s my “screw you” to Mohamud and his failed Portland terrorist plot. Nobody can take Portland away from me.

Normal “weird” people (ha – there’s an oxymoron) are more than welcome, though.

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Revenge Of The Pod People

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In the old days, we sneered at them in derision.  They were called “roach coaches” and, when they blasted their horns to announce their lunchtime arrival, we rolled our eyes.  At best, we might end up with a lukewarm burrito or a sandwich that wasn’t too soggy.  We certainly didn’t expect haute cuisine.  And yet, these days, a full-blown revolution is under way in Portland, Oregon.  The once-lowly food cart has been elevated to a lofty new culinary perch, one in which the food is varied and ethnic and inspiring and delicious, giving regular brick-and-mortar establishments a run for their money.  And, you know what?  I want in.

Mum's Kitchen dishes out "Indian South African" cuisine.

I remember my first food cart experience fondly.  Wandering through the Farmer’s Market one spring afternoon, I stumbled upon a green-and-white trailer with the name Mum’s Kitchen.  It billed itself as offering “Indian South African cuisine.” I’m not real familiar with either, and even less so with a fusion of both, but it sounded much more intriguing than a tired burger from a fast-food chain, so I ponied up for their special of the day – “roti rolls” filled with pork and cabbage, and chicken curry.  One bite and I was hooked.  They were aromatic and flavorful, wonderfully exotic and spicy.  So much so that tears were streaming down my face as I munched away.  Oh, baby.  I like it hot.  I was in heaven.  My initiation into the Portland food cart scene now complete, I decided to hunt down the cart that Portland Monthly named their best last year, Nong’s Khao Man Gai, on my next free Friday.

Southwest Alder Street, between 10th and 11th Avenues, is one of a growing number of food cart “pods” in the Portland area: clusters of carts set up in parking lots or vacant fields.  Think of an outdoor food court, and you’ll have a pretty good idea of what they are like.  There are at least a dozen carts in this particular pod, probably the best-known in the city, catering to office workers and tourists alike.  Food choices range from sandwiches and frozen yogurt to Vietnamese pho and Polish Hunter’s Stew.  Nong’s cart, which not surprisingly had the longest line, serves one dish, and one dish only: khao man gai, a popular Thai dish that is, literally, chicken and rice.  Doesn’t sound very inspiring, and yet, I was amazed by the depths of flavor.  The chicken, served atop a bed of rice, is wonderfully tender, and the accompanying broth – a gingery, garlicky, sweetly spicy Asian blend – is to die for.  You also get a cup of winter squash soup which is refreshingly hot and tasty, and a side of sliced cucumbers.  For $6, this is a steal.  Nong’s lives up to the hype.

Typical lunchtime crowd at Nong's Khao Man Gai.

With so many great food carts spread around town, many of them earning rave reviews, I’ve begun to think that this is something I’d like to do.  I’m a pretty good cook, and watching shows like Top Chef, Hell’s Kitchen, and Master Chef has awakened in me dreams of running my own kitchen.  Only I have no formal training and can’t exactly afford to go to culinary school.  Sure, it would be great to own a restaurant, and Portland is quite the hot spot for foodies.  But my chances for success in that realm are slim to none: I’m hardly a skilled chef, and it takes hundreds of thousands of dollars to open a restaurant.  You’ll have to deal with permits, zoning issues, leasing or buying a building, hiring and paying employees, etc.  Even then, roughly half go out of business within a year.  Not very good odds no matter how you slice and dice (and julienne) it!  However, with Portland’s growing reputation as a food cart mecca (articles extolling the local scene have appeared in newspapers like the New York Times and Washington Post, and  Budget Travel awarded Portland first-place for “World’s Best Street Food” in 2010), I figure my best shot at becoming my own boss lies right here in my own backyard.  I’d love to open my own food cart.  Turns out, it’s surprisingly easy – and considerably less expensive than you might think – to get started in the Rose City.

The biggest expense is going to be the cart itself.  Those little umbrella-covered push-carts so ubiquitous to hot dog vendors are a thing of the past; nowadays, food carts are likelier to be renovated campers or Airstream trailers.  Still, if you scout around for a good deal, you can pick one up for a few thousand dollars.  Add in the cost of plumbing and electrical modifications, equipment, and a license from the city of Portland, and you could get your venture off the ground and running for less than $10,000 – dirt cheap when you consider the cost of starting up your own business in a more traditional environment.

Proof that food carts have come a long way! Khao man gai from Nong's.

I’m under no delusions that the work is easy, or a guaranteed way to get rich quick.  Even though the majority of carts around town are open Monday-Friday from, say, 11:00 to 4:00, most vendors put in considerably longer hours.  You have to be willing to roll up your sleeves and get down and dirty.  You’ll wear many hats – chef, banker, carpenter, etc.  You’ve got to enjoy dealing with people, and you can’t escape health inspections just because you’re a restaurant on wheels.  But being mobile is an advantage itself; if one particular location isn’t working, you can simply move on to a new one tomorrow!  If you’re part of a pod, then your fellow food cart vendors become almost like a second family, offering encouragement, advice, and help when needed.  It’s hard work indeed, but at the end of the day, the person in charge is you, and that’s a pretty big draw in this era of downsizing.  I’ve been a part of corporate America ever since graduating from college nearly two decades ago.  Maybe it’s time I became an independent nation of one instead?

I’ve already decided on the cart.  I’ll cook, and serve, Hawaiian food.  I was born in Honolulu and pretty much grew up there, so I’m familiar with some of their more popular dishes, and adept at making them.  I figure I’ll do kalua pork, chicken long rice, a loco moco plate, macaroni/potato salad, and saimin.  I’ll have rotating specials periodically.  Oh, and hot malasadas for dessert.  I even have the perfect name: Ohana Nui, which is Hawaiian for “extended family” and also happens to be the name of the street we lived on from 1974-1977.

It’ll be a little taste of paradise in downtown Portland.  The perfect pick-me-up on a dreary winter’s day.

All I need now is ca$h!  Anybody want to invest in this little venture with me?