BAR PILOT

Lunchin’ Large

Big-Ass Sandwiches cures lunchtime blues

Posted by: John Chandler on Mar 09, 2010 at 09:00AM 11 Comments

Photo: Garrett Milojevich

I have it on good authority that the world is going to end in 2012. This came straight from the mumbling, Harvey Pekar-lookalike who sits in the back of the No. 14 bus, and thus far his data has proven to be at least as reliable as Wikipedia or Fox News. Since we’re all headed for the happy hunting grounds anyway, I can wholeheartedly recommend lunch at Big-Ass Sandwiches.

Under the proprietorship of Brian and Lisa Wood, this never-say-diet food cart at the corner of SW Third and Ash has been grilling up belt-loosening sandwiches since just before Christmas. Today I punished a Big-Ass Breakfast Sandwich (pictured), which sports a scrambled-egg foundation, covered with bacon (or sausage), and buried under a pig-pile of French fries. Somehow the soft and chewy ciabatta roll is able to swallow up this mess, though the consumer is more than welcome to shovel down a few handfuls of fries in conventional fashion before closing the sandwich, taking a beatific bite, and happily hastening their own demise. It’s an efficient little monster that ruthlessly combines side dish and entree on a dough pillow of fresh-baked bread.

Co-owner Lisa Wood tells me that this week BAS is proud to feature the Cort & Fatboy Special, a beef brisket slathered in homemade BBQ sauce and crushed beneath layers of bacon, coleslaw, and fries. Word around the carts is that this leviathan lunch special may soon spawn its own religion. And with Armageddon on the horizon, a little religion couldn’t hurt.

UPDATE: The actual title of this week’s special is “The Cort & Fatboy Happy Fun Time BBQ Southern Meat Surprise.” Thanks David Walker!

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Wonderful Words

Your new favorite band

Posted by: John Chandler on Mar 05, 2010 at 03:00PM 5 Comments

From Words to Blows: Your favorite band in six months—trust me.

Just a hastily scribbled note about last night’s a-rock-a-lyptic show at Plan B. I was floored by From Words to Blows, the new band fronted by longtime Portland sideman—and jolly good fellow—Jesse Emerson (Amelia, Flatirons), augmented by the beguiling Susannah Weaver (she who is known as Little Sue) on bass and support vocals, and by rad keyboardist Jenny Conlee who earns her primary paycheck with those wacky Decemberists.

I blogged about them last June at their first show (sans Conlee) and was duly impressed. But last night’s performance was jaw-dropping. I honestly can’t remember being that absorbed by a band (local or touring) in a long, long time. What I appreciate the most about From Words to Blows is its inventiveness; the ability to pull surprises out of a well-worn rock ‘n’ roll hat. Emerson has kind of a downbeat, blue-collar glam persona, like David Bowie slumming with a bar band. Weaver’s harmony vocals are sweetly doomed country, while Conlee’s organ fills add a ’70s hot-buttered soul groove that covers everything like syrup on a short stack. And amazingly enough, all these elements snap together with Lego efficiency into something truly heroic. I was hanging on every note.

The show was free and there were only about 25 people present at Plan B, the amiable punk rock bar located smack-dab in the middle of the inner Southeast industrial hub. A damn shame. I hope you all enjoyed a killer episode of Project Runway, because this was a night I won’t soon forget.

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Colt Classic

What to buy with $3

Posted by: John Chandler on Mar 02, 2010 at 01:00PM 11 Comments

Last night. (Below) This morning.

I feel your pain. Lest you think the Bar Pilot is some hoity-toity, well-to-do toffee-nosed twit with more dollars than sense, I would just like to take this opportunity to remind everyone that our current state of economic suck-it-tude also affects those of us whose business it is to booze.

Contrary to popular opinion, my office is not stacked floor-to-ceiling with complimentary bottles of Napoleon brandy. Nor do I spend my days sitting in a leather easy chair sipping single malt scotch with my feet propped up on a nearby intern. Sadly, my discretionary budget for drinking and gadding about town is roughly equal to that of Greenland’s highest-paid comedian.

Take yesterday for example, For myriad reasons (my losses at the Baccarat table have been staggering) I was reduced to my last $3 in spending money. Ordinarily I would simply whip out my Mastercard, but I recently discovered that my identity has been pilfered by a juvenile delinquent from Sandusky, Ohio who maxed out my credit on internet porn.

To further complicate matters, there was a Trail Blazer game on TV, and I will not watch a televised sporting event without a beer in hand. I can’t. I won’t.

So I swallowed my pride, went to the corner quickie mart where I am revered as a connoisseur of name-brand swill, and bought a 40-ounce bottle of Colt 45 malt liquor. Mr. Lee rang me up and eyeballed me with newfound contempt, like I was a priest buying a copy of Hustler. Big deal, right? I mean, this is what we drank all the time before the advent of employment. And for $2.74 it didn’t break the bank.

Still, I can’t remember the last time I was reduced to such a pitiable financial state. In order to fool my snobby sensibilities I poured my purchase into a glass normally reserved for a premium ale.

How did it go? Not too bad. I’ve had much, much worse beer in my life. Colt 45 is a relatively smooth and full-bodied brew, and what it lacks in nuance, it more than makes up for with a buzz factor that’s off the charts. In terms of bang for your buck, Colt 45 is the motherlode.

On the downside I had neglected to eat dinner so I soon found myself lost at sea. It’s been my experience that when one tipples in excess with a top-shelf spirit even the resulting intoxication is usually more of a charmingly comic episode. That extra change you’ve plunked down for the good stuff means you’re typically on solid ground even whilst inebriated. Not so with cheap malt liquor. It was a reckless sort of a drunk, like one attained by an underage drinker with hooch stolen from Mom and Dad’s liquor cabinet. I was unsteady and not terribly witty and my dogs stared up at me with alarm in their little brown eyes. I was an unfrozen caveman—a graceless savage and soon I was snoring away on the couch with x’s for eyes.

This morning I awoke with a sour taste in my mouth but thankfully no hangover. Which leads me to ask: What happened to me? I used to drink 40s all the time. I was a happy prole. A lovable lout. Have I become an effete member of the upper crust? A shameless elitist with no soul?

What do you say drinking buddies? Is the consumption or alcohol a matter of economics? Is it worthwhile to drink cheap or are you better off abstaining until you have the coin for something decent? After the age of 40 are you required to maintain your dignity 24-7? As for me, I’m not in a hurry to quaff another Colt, but it was not without its brutish charms.

After all, it’s good enough for Lando Calrissian.

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Hungry Tiger Too

A festive evening sans bankruptcy

Posted by: Emma Hall on Feb 22, 2010 at 03:00PM 4 Comments

Yes, I forgot to take a photo before I chowed down on the deliciousness that is vegan corndogs. Ah, well.

OK, it’s official, the recession sucks. Even so, there is a part of your life that should never be adversely affected by the economy: Your game—as in dating game.

Yes, our pocketbooks could do with a bit of fattening, but that’s no reason to abstain from high-rolling on occasion. Portland is loaded with places to wine and dine your sweetie without resorting to Taco Bell. In fact, I was recently able to fill up on food and even wrangle a modest buzz—with my date—for 10 measly dollars.

Wednesday nights at the Hungry Tiger Too (207 SE 12th Ave) are a tightwad’s ticket to financial security. Starting at 7, you can scarf as many vegan corndogs as you want (my max is four) and pints of PBR (my max is way more than four) for only $1 each!

Nope, I’m not a vegan (favorite food = cheeseburgers, medium rare), but the house-made vegan corndogs at Hungry Tiger are alarmingly tasty, with a perfectly crisp cornmeal shell lovingly wrapped around an I-can’t-believe-it’s-not-pig-parts wiener. Deeee-lish, and you can gracefully avoid the horror of finding out that your current romantic interest gets his/her svelte figure from a no meat/eggs/dairy diet, and now has nothing to order on the menu—and will spend the remainder of the evening smoldering with resentment.

The simple beauty of a $1 pint of PBR.

Wednesday nights at HT2 can get crowded so I recommend getting there no later than 8 or 9 in order to secure a table. Then sit back and enjoy the floorshow as the bar fills up with bearded dudes in American Apparel hoodies accompanied by stylish waifs rocking their best ragamuffin rags. Sure, you’re already on a date, but statistics show it probably won’t amount to anything. Might as well keep your eyes peeled for a future prospect.

There are also (free) board games on the premises like Cranium and Trivial Pursuit to further aid you in getting to know your companion. Do you really want to go home with a moron, a sore loser, or worse, a cheater?

My only gripe about Hungry Tiger Too’s hospitality? The music on the night I was there was cornier than the cuisine. In other words, the kind of songs one can appreciate at karaoke, but not blasting over the speakers while trying to interrogate your future mate. Can we please bury our ironic fascination with Journey, Def Leppard, and Bryan Adams once and for all? Please?

Of course, this friendly joint has other rotating specials besides cheap-date night. If you can’t make it out on a Wednesday, the next best choice is Sunday, when staving off a hangover from the previous night’s revelry is the order of the day. I suggest something from the fortifying “Mama’s Cure Alls” section of the menu: a bloody Mary for $5, the Wake Up Little Suzy (Irish coffee) for $6, or the “Sunday Mornin’” for $6.50. It’s a restorative take on the mimosa that includes a packet of E-mergenC mixed in with the champagne and OJ. Trust me, it’s good for what ails you.

Then again, if you’re feeling ambitious and need to get a head start on tomorrow’s hangover, you can opt for one of Hungry Tiger’s $10 Sippers: a huge, aquarium-size drink that (at least in theory) you really ought to share with a friend or three. And if you don’t happen to have a breakfast buddy, just gaze imploringly around the room. Surely someone will offer to help you slay your monstrous cocktail. Like I said, it’s a friendly place.

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Vancouver = Vodka

Catch Olympic fever—and a buzz

Posted by: John Chandler on Feb 19, 2010 at 11:00AM 8 Comments

Liquor company executives aren’t stupid. Why shouldn’t you have Olympic-themed cocktails the next time your pals come over to watch the bobsled finals? No reason at all.

The marketing wizards at Three Olives, an English company that boasts more than a dozen flavors of vodka, sent me the following recipes to not only inspire sports fans to greater heights of fanaticism but also to toast all nations in the spirit(s) of international competition.

See, the five rings represent the five original participating continents in the 1920 Antwerp Olympics. Cripes, you’d think Antarctica could field a kick-ass Winter Olympic squad, but it appears the nation is comprised entirely of couch potatoes. If you don’t appreciate my shilling for Three Olives, feel free to use the flavored vodka of your choice. But remember, they did go to the trouble of inventing these drinks. Sure beats watching the Biathlon sober.

Blue Skis
3 oz. Three-O Grape Vodka
½ oz. blue caracao
1 oz. lemonade
Mix ingredients in a glass with ice

Mountain Mist
3 oz. Three-O Citrus Vodka
½ oz grapefruit juice
½ oz pineapple juice
Splash of triple sec
Mix ingredients in a glass with ice

Black Ice
1 ¼ oz. Three-O Triple Espresso Vodka
¾ oz. premium dark chocolate liqueur
½ oz. orange liqueur
Mix ingredients in a glass with ice

Curling on the Rocks
2 oz. Three-O Raspberry Vodka
½ oz. melon liqueur
½ oz. triple sec
Splash of cranberry juice
Splash of orange juice
Mix ingredients in a glass with ice

Olympic Flame
3 oz. Three-O Cherry Vodka
½ oz. triple sec
1 oz. cranberry juice
Splash of fresh lime juice
Mix ingredients in a glass with ice

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