Patrick and I recently came back from a trip to Portland, Oregon. While we were there, he suggested we try Saskaspooning. "But we're in Portland," I countered. "We'd be Portlaspooning."
"So?" he countered.
So, indeed. We decided to portlaspoon.
We were sitting the Hollywood Branch of the Portland Public Library, the very branch that Ms Beverly Cleary herself used to work at. We'd just completed our Ramona Quimby (if you do not understand my references here, please take a few minutes to google these people. You will not be sorry that you did) walking tour and were feeling a bit hungry, and the library had free wifi. So we stood by the periodicals and gave the old ipod a shake....and we got a pizza restaurant about six blocks from where we were standing.
Now. Those of you who know me know that pizza and Ramona Quimby are two of my biggest weaknesses. I make a point of eating pizza everywhere I go (this means that I once ordered pizza at a restaurant in Vietnam that arrived via delivery bike from a pizza place elsewhere in the village, consumed fantastic pizza at a place in Tokyo that a man from New York declared, in a large letter adorning the wall, to be the best pizza worldwide, and I once forced Patrick on a trek across Toronto in a January Blizzard to get a slice). We'd already eaten pizza in Las Vegas and Los Angeles, and I very nearly bought a slice in Santa Cruz after the Rob Zombie concert (how brilliant is it to sell pizza in a bar?). So we weren't really looking for another pizza, and we weren't really looking to eat in the same neighbourhood we'd just spent the past few hours wandering around, but what can you do? Those are the rules, even when you're in Portland.
We found the place, Dolce Vivi, discovered it didn't open for another 30 minutes. We decided to get a drink, so strolled over to a brew pub nearby. On our way we passed a young man with a chin beard juggling Indian clubs whilst peddling his unicycle. It was delightful.
After our drinks, we headed back to Dolce Vivi and discovered that we had found the Quintessential Portland Pizza Place. Here is a copy of their menu:
Get out your magnifying glasses, because you want to read that text there.
Okay, so we ordered a pizza with two halves -- half with their home-made sausage and some sort of vegetable, and half with all vegetables. We ordered some drinks and a salad to start, and waited for our lovingly prepared pizza. We watched the people -- there was a couple of guys in Urban Woodsman outfits, and a number of couples on dates. The place was chock-a-block with hipsters. At one point Patrick got "mock angry" with me and pretended to be shouting angrily at me, and one of the hipster men looked like he was going to come over and deal with this abusive situation, only he was carrying a baby on a sling so he stayed where he was and ate his pizza, but glowered at us while we all ate.
Finally our pizza came. I am not sure how I feel about cornmeal crusts. They may be locally made and ground by cult members, but I sort of missed wheat. It was pretty heavy. But otherwise, it was a lovely pizza. Fresh toppings, plenty of vegetables, and cheese from a happy, healthy goat. What else could you want in a pizza? Besides wheat and grease, that is.
The other fun facts about the restaurant? As it says on their menu above, they are also a slice place, but they make each slice from scratch. So if you order a slice, they will make the crust for you and cook your slice from raw. Also? The beat salad was really good, the wine was relatively inexpensive, but the California beer Patrick had? We decided it had an aftertaste a bit too similar to blood.
And that, my friends, is the story of the one and only time I will ever have pizza in Portland, Oregon. Unless I go back, of course. And then I will likely have pizza again.
