Two lanes of paved road wind through the valleys near Monterey, agriculture and activity on every side, lettuces and vines. In late fall, harvest is still afoot, and laborers roam up and down the rows, picking and pruning, from early morning hours ’til late in the day. Sorting and processing whirs above the silence, and if you’re lucky, there’ll be an afternoon pour at lunch.
Denver, that old Mile High City. Where it used to be an airport hub, or a stopover when traveling to Vail or Aspen, the Colorado capital has seen its interior corridor flourish over the last decade, with building renovations and art installations. The restaurant and bar scene continues to thrive as well, bringing kitchens from New York, LA, and Portland in recent years.
There’s never been a debate in our house on how to pronounce Louisville. When I was a kid, my stepfather made frequent business trips south, guiding his Kentucky sales team on the best practices for selling snowblowers before the Midwest winter began.
It was tough to sleep on the red-eye from Vancouver, British Columbia, to Toronto, Ontario. When I initially booked my tickets from Portland, Oregon, to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, the cheapest route put me through Canada, which I certainly didn’t mind. A short jump to Vancouver, a red-eye flight, and a day to play in Toronto before I boarded for Brazil.
Aside from your relationship with potatoes, you hadn’t really crossed my mind over the years, your state little more than a hostage to the French fry existence. As it turns out, there’s more to you, with over 180 agricultural products, a top producer of Austrian winter peas, trout, barley, sugarbeets – and yes, potatoes. You also have a serious relationship with wine. Who knew?
My knowledge of the Tri-Cities area had been somewhere between the Hanford Site and the Kennewick Man over the last fifteen years of my Northwest residence. It seemed a flat, uninteresting corridor in the lower middle of Washington state with nothing but space to offer, overshadowed by the evergreen of Seattle further west.
Like most of my born-in-the-70s peers, I grew up in the age of starry science fiction, with Star Wars and Star Trek dominating my television and my bedroom decor. Outer space seemed within my childhood grasp, and with it, new extraterrestrial communities, terrains foreign and familiar, and unparalleled cosmic opportunities – like navigating a spaceship – around every corner.
Chef Chris Cosentino’s Jackrabbit does business at a clip. Now more than a year in business, the anchor spot of the gilded Duniway Hotel in downtown Portland bustles from morning to night with hotel guests and locals alike.
If you didn’t know who you were looking for, I’m not sure you would’ve even noticed him standing there on the sidewalk. Pacing back and forth along the curb, a phone pressed to his ear, he had a black cap pulled tightly over his head, black jacket, black shirt, black pants.
Simon Van Booy has a way with words. A way with people, really. An observation of life that builds on a page like the slow, calculated movements of the constructs of an igloo. His stories offer a richness to life’s every day instances – love and loss, birth and death, the climbing and the falling of dreams.
I’ll admit when Ian Karmel announced he was leaving Portland, a part of me panicked. It’s not that Portland doesn’t have other great comics – we certainly do (Sean Jordan, Curtis Cook, Jen Tam, Barbra Holm, to name a few) – but Ian was my surefire indication that a show would be funny. If he was on the bill, it was almost definite that other awesome funny people would be in the line-up, too. What would I do without that reassurance?
Where does one even begin when writing about Anthony Bourdain? A chef whose fame has had more to do with sharp wit than kitchen skill, he is outspoken, unapologetic, and controversial.