That's a'Spicy

Returning to omnivory has made me giddy to eat all of the delicious treats made from various parts of our farmyard friends that I denied myself as a vegetarian. My gut reaction, so to speak, is that I am overindulging in meat, and so I have to overcorrect with high fiber veggies. Nevertheless, Friday night, when I was just returned from a week in the field, found me eating an Italian hoagie at two separate Portland locations within a span of three hours.

The first stop was Michael's Sandwiches at 11th and Sandy Blvd. I read in the local press that Michael himself is a curmudgeon, and there are some officious signs tacked up around the place. But how much truck can you have with a guy who flies Cubs and Bears pennants in his restaurant and serves up authentic Chicago style Italian subs? Options are peppers, hot or mild, and onions, raw or sauteed. I was the only guy in line at 4:30 on Friday and my sandwich arrived practically before the order was out of my mouth. The beef is tender and savory with a fresh taste and aroma. There could have been a little more jus on the sub to lubricate the baguette. I ordered the half sandwich, and wondered why I had made such a paltry offering to my bottomless pit.

The reason for temperance became clear later when I found myself at the bar of the Brickhouse Pizzeria on northeast Sandy Blvd. I had just sidled up there to drink a few pints and watch the San Francisco Giants in what was ultimately a losing effort. But then I thought back to my eighth grade gym coach's advice on what a poor idea it is to drink on an empty stomach. So when the accomodating proprietor Thanna made a case for the Italian sausage, I ordered my second hoagie of the night. It was creamy meat with aromatic fennel. The taste took me back to youthful days of inhaling square-cut pies at kids' birthday parties, and the sausage compares favorably to any I can remember in classic Chicago pizzerias.

While I'm talkin' sandwich, I gotta give it up to the cubano at Bunk on SE Morrison. This is just a slab of pork belly (the uncured raw material of bacon) wrapped in a slice of ham and served with swiss and mayo on a baguette. Rolling pork in ham is the kind of audacity you need to distinguish yourself in the culinary playground of Portland, and I was patting my belly for hours after my trip to Bunk Sandwiches.

It is a joy to sample the fine cuisine that is available and to appreciate the many flavors that the earth and sunshine bring forth. But I feel that if I continue to binge in the way described I am at risk of the gout and midlife coronaries. So this morning I return soberly to rolled oats and the greenest bananas this side of Ecuador.