Announcing East of 82nd
Announcing East of 82nd
Exploring Portland's diverse food culture
tl;dr: New food Substack exploring the diverse cuisine on Portland’s very-east side. Updated infrequently, always free. Sign up here.
My wife and I moved to Portland in the spring of 2022. We both love and cook a wide variety of cuisines (she more than me). While we didn’t know one another in New York City, we both loved the diverse food cultures offered throughout the boroughs (and Jersey City). We met in Los Angeles, and made it a point to try a new food or coffee shop every weekend. That’s a ritual we’ve continued to observe here in the City of Roses.
By chance, we happened to move to Mt Scott-Arleta, which abuts 82nd Ave. Most of what we knew about Portland’s food culture was west, though we were quite happy that the Latino food cart pod, Mercado, is walking distance. Being half-Thai, she was excited that Shun Fat Supermarket and Winco Foods, both giant Asian markets, are nearby. The more time we spent on 82nd Ave, the more we realized this is the real heart of Portland’s food culture—and culture in general.
Not to take anything away from the rest of the city. Every hood has its charms and problems. But 82nd Ave rarely comes up in discussions around food, or culture, and yet its the city’s most diverse region. Having spent a decade of my life working and traveling as an international music journalist and DJ, I’ve always loved learning about and exploring other cultures. And so exploring a range of cultures and cuisines in my backyard makes sense.
I have no timeline on this project, and will be sharing restaurants, food carts, grocers, and more as I visit. I hope you enjoy this slice of Portland through our eyes (she’s a much better food photographer than I am).
Bottom-dwelling goodness
My first encounter with Caribbean food was at a patty shop in New Brunswick. Wedging a spicy slab of chicken-filled suet dough between two fat slices of coco bread for $2.50 is a college student’s dream, one I had often.
Walk out, take a right, descend George St. The tapestry swag shop down the block is owned by a riddling Rasta who sells me the best weed at Rutgers at an elevated price point—also worth it considering the $90 ounces of Mexican brick we’re accustomed to. Thankfully, the many glorious island herbs work together.
My love affair for this cuisine grew from there. All so familiar, yet always holding its own. For years, I order the shrimp roti at Nicole’s in Jersey City, learning about the African slaves and Indian indentured servants spread across this chain of islands smashing their indigenous foods and spices together with local crops. Necessity breeds creativity.
I don’t recall much about my first visit to Florida, except this: stopping at a Fort Lauderdale street festival and spotting a Rasta serving conch sandwiches. The pepper sauce leaps from the fried mollusk, tempered by two thick slices of bread. I devour it, look at Wayne, our red eyes blazed over, turn around, order another. This chef is never going to be in my life again. Desire destroys satiation—a decision never regretted.
Then, my only actual visit to the Caribbean, walking into a St Thomas restaurant, ordering patties and coco bread, veggie curry and roti, whatever my then-vegetarianism allowed.