This Little Piggy Went to Portland

I scheduled our first outing to Portland for February 1, weeks in advance, to coincide with a hair appointment at a salon that carried my products. At my age I unapologetically allow myself the indulgences of a self-care day on occasion and good food whenever possible. On this day, we hit the jackpot.

We had just enough time to grab an early lunch before my much anticipated hair appointment aka salon audition of the century. If you don't get why a good salon is important, I don't have to time explain it here. That's the topic of its own blog entry and many a therapy session. Suffice it to say I was much relieved to come out with good hair and not, like in 1990, a butch cut that made me, with my chipmunk cheeks and round face, resemble Eric Cartman from South Park.

My stylist is a Texas transplant with a stint working for the Spanish Royal Family on her resume. Married to a chef, she and her wife, will be a source of all good foodie referrals yet to come. A reader of perfume blogs and observer of the human condition, my stylist at http://www.arabellasalon.com/ made for a great first ambassador of Portland.

The magic of this day was amplified by the fact that the sun was shining, and it lifted the moods of Portlandians everywhere, so much so that we were heartily greeted with smiles and hellos when we walked into the restaurant http://russellstreetbbq.com/. The Russell Street BBQ was a half block around the corner from my hair destination, a perfect place to soak in the sun streaming through the window, to watch the honey drizzle onto the triangle of cornbread and to wait for the butter to soften in the noonday warmth. If I were a cat, I'd have been purring as I basked in the heat. The smoky, earthy scent of barbecue, with just enough of a hint of vinegar to make your mouth water, wafted through the air.

Funky roots and jazz music playing on the radio, an eclectic staff with piercings, tattoos, mohawks and skinny jeans made this place anything but redneck. It is what outsiders might imagine an eatery in Portlandia might look like, complete with a statement on the menu that food was seasonal, locally sourced and antibiotic free. We refrained from asking whether our piggy had a name or whether it had been read bed-time stories before giving its life over to the magic butcher in the sky. Plating was no nonsense, but the yams, coleslaw and half rack were to die for.

Just that morning we had bid farewell to our big green egg barbecue because the will of condo fascism prevailed and we were forbidden to use our charcoal chamber of goodness ever again. This lunch definitely softened the blow of involuntary simplicity made real by a letter from the Home Owner's Association. Guess if we get a hankerin' for some home-style pork, we'll just hop in the car and wend our way to the city and the delights of Russell Street.