Sugar Rush Sunday
apologies for the delay, busy family life got in the way.
One of the only things Arthur requested as part of our return trip to Portland this summer was, "we have to eat at Slappy Cakes."
Yep. Slappy Cakes. Slappy... Cakes. Slappycakes. It just doesn't get any better no matter how you pronounce it.
Luckily, simply going to a restaurant does not obligate you to say its name. So on Sunday morning we started our sugar run with a trip out to Southeast Portland to griddle our own pancakes like a Korean barbecue.
It has been an interesting journey learning what new signs and visual cues we need to be on the lookout for, to ensure a truly accessible experience. Time was, Dacia and I would seek out dark, cramped, and funky restaurants... because that's where the best food was, where we lived. Then, after Althea and Arthur came along, we searched for well-lit and clean chain or chain-adjacent restaurants... because we knew had high chairs and menus for picky little eaters. And finally now, we search for signs that the restaurant is going to have smooth floors, wide doorways, and plenty of space in the bathroom... because, well, you know.
So for instance, today's restaurant was in a relatively new mixed-use building, which meant recently refreshed and blessedly-smooth sidewalks, along with ADA-compliant entrances and bathrooms. Of course, how one reads the language of urban development differs based on various factors, but it's quite easy to forget that not everyone experiences the city in the same way as you when you're just trying wrangle two tired kids through a 30-minute wait for a table.
Anyway, after the long wait during which, in his own words, Arthur "almost died," we got to our table and many pancakes were cooked and consumed.
Our next stop was just down the street, but far enough (half a mile) that Dacia reminded me of my exhausting half-mile roll across Concord during the July heat of Arthur's birthday party, convincing me we should drive. To be honest, having to drive short distances is one of the things that frustrates me the most about this injury (behind, you know, the whole no walking/incontinence/phantom pain thing). Before the injury, my goal moving through space was to maintain flow and reduce friction. Whether I was skiing, biking, or simply shopping at Trader Joe's I wanted to move quickly, efficiently, and smoothly.
Incidentally (and this is largely for Jeff), this is really at the heart of my resistance to backcountry skiing. It's all that transitioning at the end of each climb and run–it takes time and I didn't have it down well enough to feel graceful doing it. But this is to say thank you, Jeff, for teaching me about the importance of stopping to appreciate the scenery (and drink good whiskey) even if I still largely just want to go fast.
Anyway, after two transitions–maybe I should start using that ski touring term instead of "transfer"–we made it to the Avalon Theater, Southeast Portland's most intense coin-op arcade. I spent many afternoons here back when I was at Reed, and the Avalon was only 80 years old and the ADA was only 10 years old. So I expected to find some interesting conditions inside, and it didn't disappoint. After squeezing through the 28-inch-wide entry doors, I rolled up a barely-compliant 1:8 ratio ramp to the front desk, purchased our entry passes (still only $2.50!) and loaded some cards with tokens (still only five cents per token! how are they doing this in this economy?!) and handed them to the kids so they could, via sequential taps and joystick moves, produce a series of photons and sound waves that generated those good brain chemicals we're all chasing.
Dacia and I were content to watch the kids playing happily–so I don't have any accessibility issues to report with arcade game cabinets.
It took about two hours (and a ton of nickels) for Arthur to pronounce himself "cooked," which we took to mean "my brain literally can't handle any more dopamine, please place me in a dark room so I can dissipate."
Luckily the rest of the day was relatively peaceful.
After a visit to the vintage stores along Hawthorne Boulevard where Althea got several more '90s looks (0.3mi away, we drove because I was a tired boy), we drove down to the Woodstock neighborhood for dinner at Heist, which we later learned was the trendiest food truck pod in all of Portland. Because we came in from the back entrance, I didn't immediately clock that the pod was built in the parking lot of the stylishly-modern former Union Bank of California building at SW Woodstock and 47th. The last time I had been in this building was to effect some sort of financial transaction for Aunt Terre and Uncle Ray back when they were out of the country. I'm sure the statute of limitations is up by now, so no worries.
Aaaaanyway, the food was amazing, they had an accessible bathroom (but I was advised by a staff member to "lock the door behind [me] because the staff like to 'take breaks' in there"), a bar with a full complement of cocktail makings, and the smoothest, flattest polished concrete floor I've yet to experience. It's such a wonderful feeling to be able to push once and glide magically to my destination. So far my ranking of surfaces is something like:
- terrazzo
- concrete (polished/painted)
- wide-plank wood
- decking
- asphalt (PMAC)
- grass
- asphalt (chip-seal)
- asphalt (Oakland)
- those accessibility bumps at curb cuts
- gravel
Based on this list it's clear that Dacia and I should retire to Palm Springs. Or maybe just move there. Kids like oppressive global-warming-driven desert heat, right?
There was sadly no time after lunch to visit Reed and bore the children with stories of my time there. Nope, back to the hotel to rest (me) and decompress (kids). We barely made it out to our 7:00 reservation at Portland's oldest restaurant, Huber's. The food isn't typically much to write home about, except maybe as a PS in a letter saying something along the lines of "they really like turkey here." Yes, you can actually get a traditional thanksgiving dinner here every day of the year. Yes, the menu has classics like turkey piccata or turkey enchiladas. Yes, you can get a turkey club sandwich with turkey bacon. But tonight Arthur, who is normally a turkey aficionado, was a bit worn out and just wanted butter noodles.
These were the best butter noodles I have ever tasted. I know that sounds stupid (and I'm sure the waitstaff thought I was weird). It was just dry penne tossed with unsalted butter and sea salt, and topped with fresh grated parmesan. But those four simple ingredients were just perfectly balanced in a way that was deeply satisfying to my inner child. Huber's might become a "last night in Portland" tradition.
Next up: Dacia monsters a 10-hour drive back home! And thoughts on the trip overall.