McMenamins John Barleycorns (Tigard, OR)
Beer. It's what's for lunch. And here's why: because the only fucking table they could find for me is a tiny bistro affair that's literally the size of a large pizza pan. It can accommodate my laptop and a glass of beer and NOTHING ELSE. The waitress (or whatever they call them here in McMenaminsland) asked me when she first seated me if I wanted some food.
"I do, actually," I replied, "but where would I put it?"
"Let me know if you change your mind," she said as she walked away to fetch my glass of Workingman's Red (it's seasonal, you know, so I've gotta drink as much as I can before May 31st).
But yes, I'm hungry. I've been here for about an hour, I'm almost done with my second beer (Irish Stout, also seasonal), and some fish and chips would really be the cat's pajamas right about now. I keep waiting for a booth to open up, so I can meekly ask to be moved, but so far it ain't happening. It's a Friday afternoon, though, so maybe it'll just stay busy until closing. It is Friday the 13th, after all.
Holy shit, Adam Ant's behind the bar, and he's got a mohawk. Not judging, not hating. Peace and love… and yes, beer a'plenty.
There's a lady sitting in a booth across from me. She had a beer (from the color it looked like a Hammerhead Ale, which is like drool from the Almighty), and now she's flossing her teeth at the table. Flossing… her… teeth. I mean, I realize microbrews sometimes have a bit of sediment at the bottom, but surely it couldn't have lodged itself between her teeth….? Is that even possible? The mind reels.
It's actually calmed down quite a bit in here since I first arrived. I called in sick to work with the sole intention of having a few beers, eating some fish and chips (saw Bobby Flay lose a fish 'n chips Throwdown to some cat in New York on the Food Network last night, so I've been craving it ever since), and getting some writing done. Beers, check. Writing, check (the proof is before your eyes). But the fish and chips has thus far eluded me, since I can't fit any food on this fucking half-dollar-sized table. But it has calmed down somewhat in here, so maybe I can con 'em into moving me to a booth. And as fate would have it, flossing lady and her date (who hopefully was her dad, or an uncle or something, because he was WAY too old for her) have cleared out, and I don't see anybody waiting for a table.
I hate bugging waitresses (or whatever they're called here), but dammit, I want some chow. And thirty seconds later, I'm in the booth, and she's bringing me a Belgian IPA (which is brand new, she tells me), with fish and chips to follow. I liken this moment to the day I moved from my apartment to my house. I can actually move around here! Suck it, tiny table.
The Belgian IPA is good. Got a bitter little bite at the end, which I like. Looks like Hammerhead. I've gotta get the Picasso Moon Pale Ale before I leave. I know I've had it before, but I'll be damned if I can remember it.
I've gotta ask her what her title is. It's gonna bug me now.
2:15 now, and I'm sharing my table with a gorgeous basket of fish and chips. The Belgian Ale is actually darker than the fish, which is impressive. Wait a minute…. What, no vinegar? Oh hell, that's just harsh.
Some guy just walked in and was greeted by another guy:
"Hey, what's up?"
"Not much."
That's kinda sad, isn't it? Not much? It's Friday afternoon, and you're about to have a beer, and that's the best you can do? Jesus God, man! But you know, it occurs to me that a lot of people say that. "Not much." Well, pal, you woke up today, you're breathing, nobody shot you today (well, so far), your heart didn't fail you (well, so far), and at this moment your country of origin isn't embroiled in World War III. These are the basics. Fill in all the other blanks with spouses, kids, jobs, favorite books and movies, what you ate for breakfast, what you're driving, your favorite sexual position, and a million other details, and I'd say you and everybody else has a helluva lot going on. "Not much," my ass.
We're too generic in our responses to courtesy questions. The next time somebody asks me how I'm doing, I'm gonna tell him (or her, whatever the case may be). In detail. In depth. Maybe then people will learn to ask yes-or-no questions. "Are you having a good day?", for example. Or maybe "are you gonna eat the rest of those fries?" Yes or no. Otherwise, I'm gonna tell you my life story. Proceed at your own risk.
Two big chunks of deep-fried halibut later, my fish and chips lust has finally been sated. It was good, but I'm sure it pales in comparison to the goodness thrown down (pun most certainly intended) by Bobby Flay and his opponent last night (can't remember the name, but the smack talk hurled out by his cronies was hysterical). The waitress (or serving wench, or whatever) should be here any second with my fourth and final beer: the Picasso Moon Pale Ale. What a great name. And yes, it's wonderful, just like every single beer these bastards serve. McMenamins never lets me down.
Let me take this opportunity to put down in print for the first time MY idea for a drink. It's a Bearded Cactus, and it's essentially a Bloody Mary with tequila and beer instead of vodka, and finadini instead of Worcestershire sauce. Oh, and pickled asparagus spears instead of celery (but the celery is still represented with a healthy amount of celery salt). Four green olives on one of those cute little plastic swords and a straw. Big glass (probably twice the size of the usual Bloody Mary size). Salted rim. Pepper, chopped garlic, pepperoncini juice, lime juice, V-8 (regular or spicy), and hot pepper sauce (I can't for the life of me remember the name of it, even though it's a common household item. It's probably the four (delicious) McMenamins beers I've had, fucking with my memory.
I don't need my memory, damn it. I need my taste buds, and as long as they keep working, I'll have a reason to live.
Okay, my waitress (or whatever) is behind the bar now, mixing a drink. So she's clearly more than a waitress. She's gotta be a full-on bartender. You go, girl.
Tabasco! It's called Tabasco. See? There's hope for me yet.
