Stumptown brew has become my morning regular, a habit I could not afford to maintain were I to live at The Ace Hotel. Hmmm.....living at The Ace. Idea. Those are my new watermelon red socks that already have holes in the toes. Is this what we've come to expect from socks? Come on now, China.
I ran across the Hawthorne Bridge then along the East Esplanade, home to several homeless folks. I'd live there if I were homeless, lots of nice landscaping and a watery lullaby. (I'm aware that's awful.) There's a flight of four sections of metal steps that rise back up to "street" level of Burnside Bridge which I've made a vow to run up and down for each dessert and unnecessary cocktail or glass of wine I've enjoyed. I figured that was a good trade-off. So I've run up and down those steps a LOT. So then I found myself on the east side and tooled around over there in the cool morningtime. Really enjoyable, and lots of cool signage. We all know I love signage, add to that an automobile's name and a dramatic sky, boom. Chevytown.
Sizzle Pie! This made me glad.
While enjoying a strong second cup, a....what's that you say?......vegan apple cinnamon scone (if only I'd had some butter..) and an art periodical at a sidewalk table at Grendel's Coffee, I glanced at the barrage of posters in the window. Loved this one, everything about it. Everything that I can't put words to. Get me?
Lan Su Chinese Garden. Forgive me, but I don't generally find breathless inspiration in art that is Asian in origin/style. I understand and acknowledge the craft and care that go into the architecture, the meticulous laying of stone, the cautious, intuitive pressures involved in the calligraphing of characters....it's just not my cup-o-tea. (Tea. Heh.) So the garden was lovely, peaceful, well-designed, intriguing, good-smelling....
Most of these sound like really delightful places to spend one's time. And some of them are, well, hilarious. "Knowing the Fish Pavilion."
So Evie is either there, getting to know the fish, or she's in the Tower of Cosmic Reflections...oh hell. It could be any one of them, really.
A darling little lunch at Little Bird on 6th.
A dusk walk across the Burnside bridge once more. Clear sky, whipping wind.
Le Pigeon. They had everything I loved. Vintage (looking) cutlery and dishware, a kind and genuine waitstaff, a really great glass of Rosé from the Loire, smiling chefs that hand you your food right across the bank of mise en place, big crunchy crystals of sea salt on the sweet, creamy, just-shy-of-cold butter they serve with their baguette, a good luck card to the chef hand-drawn by a little tyke (I hope) and taped to the hood vent, dining neighbors who offer me a bite of their foie gras and then ask if they can take a picture for me.
Strapping fellows. This one had inch-long eyelashes and said "we're here to make things possible" when I asked if I might have a phone book on which to sit so I could see over the towering bins of toasted pine nuts, dressed tomato salad, Italian parsley leaves, perfectly sliced potatoes, and fresh morels.
Honey-lavender cake, pistachio terrine, rhubarb.
