Around and about
On Thursday night we discovered "The Horsebrass" on 45th and Belmont. Unlike the other so-called English pubs that one happens upon every now and then, this one is almost frighteningly realistic - somehow they have even managed to import the distinctive odour along with the oak beams, odd rural memorabilia, dartboards, ash trays etc.
Rachel nurses a pint of Dry Blackthorn at The Horsebrass on Belmont. Frighteningly authentic.
Poor Rachel, who had missed "hard cider" (as they call it here, US cider being unfiltered apple juice) dreadfully, actually got rather nostalgic and would break off conversation to say things like, "I keep expecting to see Emile over there!" and so forth. This is despite the fact that she never really had a lot of time for the pub in England, if memory serves me correctly. For my own part I found the experience quite uplifting, firstly to know such is available around the corner, but mostly because, reminiscent as it was of a slightly more soigné and oddly more authentic "Royal Oak," it reminded me of exactly what I wasn't missing when I spent my weekend sipping martinis instead.
Rachel could only be consoled by a trip to Dairy Queen, where I had a raspberry cheesquake blizzard, if I recall.
However, Rachel's reaction is actually very interesting from a psychological perspective because it highlights a pathology endemic to the ex-pat: a highly romanticised nostalgia for objects and experiences which one never had any time for previously. Teary-eyed visions of the "old country." I even found myself getting hacked-off with the retarded morning show presenters on 1190 KEX (the name says it all) as they laid into Prince Charles when it was initially suggested that he wasn't going to change his wedding day because of the Pope's funeral. I was all for phoning in and asking whether any of them would have changed their wedding day if it had happened to coincide with the Pope's funeral and by the way the British Royal Family haven't been Catholic for about 400 years (I think, actually I've always been rather poor at history). Then I realised: what do I care if they're slagging off Prince Charles?
Anyhow, here's some more photos as promised!
Although this photo singularly fails to capture the full glory, Portland is alive with spring bloom, which you occasionally get to appreciate when it stops raining for five minutes. If Rachel looks annoyed it's because I dragged her from her Sunday afternoon nap to take a walk in nearby Laurelhurst Park
Welcome to my kitchen, said the spider to the fly, or somesuch.
A master at work. That's the base of a bechemel sauce slowly infusing under the sheet of kitchen roll, by the way.
It's the living room, with Conker in it. By the way, I strongly recommend you read his blog this week; after months of lethargy Das Peanutten has stepped in and done him proud.
That'll be the dining room then.
The Bombay Cricket Club dashes further US stereotypes by proving it is possible to get a decent curry in Oregon. Really, this place is outstandingly good, with Prawns Coconut Curry medium-hot (pictured) being my top pick. Their "hot" is actually far too hot for me to handle, though not nearly as hot as the "Great Balls of Fire" available at Salvador Molly's Pirate Cookhouse (eat five and you get your picture on the wall; Rachel, Leon and myself couldn't manage one between us). However the Cricket Club is as expensive as the Shanaz (which is shocking over here) and they call Sag Aloo a curry and charge you $10 for it, when everyone knows it's a sidedish.
This is where all my money goes: the cheese counter at PastaWorks.
At last - evidence of that sand-dollar Rachel found at the beach in February.
Look, I married that woman off Star Trek. She won't thank me for this one.
Hands up who didn't need to see this. That'll be all of you, then. Still, a man needs to relax after a spot of Saturday morning footy and I could hardly leave you without seeing the hot-tub - or could I?.
Rachel nurses a pint of Dry Blackthorn at The Horsebrass on Belmont. Frighteningly authentic.
Poor Rachel, who had missed "hard cider" (as they call it here, US cider being unfiltered apple juice) dreadfully, actually got rather nostalgic and would break off conversation to say things like, "I keep expecting to see Emile over there!" and so forth. This is despite the fact that she never really had a lot of time for the pub in England, if memory serves me correctly. For my own part I found the experience quite uplifting, firstly to know such is available around the corner, but mostly because, reminiscent as it was of a slightly more soigné and oddly more authentic "Royal Oak," it reminded me of exactly what I wasn't missing when I spent my weekend sipping martinis instead.
Rachel could only be consoled by a trip to Dairy Queen, where I had a raspberry cheesquake blizzard, if I recall.
However, Rachel's reaction is actually very interesting from a psychological perspective because it highlights a pathology endemic to the ex-pat: a highly romanticised nostalgia for objects and experiences which one never had any time for previously. Teary-eyed visions of the "old country." I even found myself getting hacked-off with the retarded morning show presenters on 1190 KEX (the name says it all) as they laid into Prince Charles when it was initially suggested that he wasn't going to change his wedding day because of the Pope's funeral. I was all for phoning in and asking whether any of them would have changed their wedding day if it had happened to coincide with the Pope's funeral and by the way the British Royal Family haven't been Catholic for about 400 years (I think, actually I've always been rather poor at history). Then I realised: what do I care if they're slagging off Prince Charles?
Anyhow, here's some more photos as promised!
"Big daddy we love you, Big daddy and your barbecue" - scarily that's a jingle I made up myself.
The nearest restaurant to our house, you always know you're home when you see the flame-coloured motif hove into view.
Although this photo singularly fails to capture the full glory, Portland is alive with spring bloom, which you occasionally get to appreciate when it stops raining for five minutes. If Rachel looks annoyed it's because I dragged her from her Sunday afternoon nap to take a walk in nearby Laurelhurst Park
Welcome to my kitchen, said the spider to the fly, or somesuch.
A master at work. That's the base of a bechemel sauce slowly infusing under the sheet of kitchen roll, by the way.
It's the living room, with Conker in it. By the way, I strongly recommend you read his blog this week; after months of lethargy Das Peanutten has stepped in and done him proud.
That'll be the dining room then.
The Bombay Cricket Club dashes further US stereotypes by proving it is possible to get a decent curry in Oregon. Really, this place is outstandingly good, with Prawns Coconut Curry medium-hot (pictured) being my top pick. Their "hot" is actually far too hot for me to handle, though not nearly as hot as the "Great Balls of Fire" available at Salvador Molly's Pirate Cookhouse (eat five and you get your picture on the wall; Rachel, Leon and myself couldn't manage one between us). However the Cricket Club is as expensive as the Shanaz (which is shocking over here) and they call Sag Aloo a curry and charge you $10 for it, when everyone knows it's a sidedish.
This is where all my money goes: the cheese counter at PastaWorks.
At last - evidence of that sand-dollar Rachel found at the beach in February.
Look, I married that woman off Star Trek. She won't thank me for this one.
Hands up who didn't need to see this. That'll be all of you, then. Still, a man needs to relax after a spot of Saturday morning footy and I could hardly leave you without seeing the hot-tub - or could I?.
posted by Richard Tammar at 9:46 AM
2 Comments:
Is the Bombay Cricket Club obliged by Federal law to include the word 'delightful' in the description of every dish on the menu, or is that just an English thing?
Also, do you get a comlimentary shot of paint stripper/brandy, and a red rose for your good lady wife, upon completing your meal?
ummm, no. Good points there, Simey. How quickly one forgets!
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