Breaking Bread v.2

by Jeremy O'Bryan

Leah and I took a rest in Portland this weekend, hitting the Stumptown Coffee Roasters and Powell’s City of Books adjacent to the Pearl District. We woke Monday morning and took off on foot looking for a great place for breakfast.

Some say the increased use of the word “bistro” is suggesting too much, and that the true attitude of the bistro can only be delivered in Paris. Nonsense.

We pulled up at the Everett Street Bistro in the heart of the Pearl District with our appetites in high gear, which is good, because the fare in plentiful and yummy.

Patrons are wedged in pretty tight, but the white paint, tall windows, and high ceilings make it bearable. Plus there’s a hint of Europe in sitting near enough to the neighboring table to hear an entire whispered conversation.

Our waiter, J.C., embodied the Bohemian atmosphere of the place, complete with tattoos, black-rimmed glasses, and not-really blonde hair. He came swashbuckling up to our table.

“How we doin’?” he inquired, expectantly.

“Good, man, how are you today?” I shot back. Leah and I smiled at him.

“Workin’,” he said, smiling back and moving his head on his neck like a pigeon. “Workin’ and twerkin’.”

“Cool.” I finished. It was going to be an interesting experience, even if the food sucked. Which it patently did not.

We ordered coffee, which comes from Sleepy Monk Coffee Roasters in Cannon Beach, Oregon.

Leah just looked at me. “Twerking?” she said, with the end upturned like a question. I widened my eyes and shrugged, which is all I could really do. Come to find out, twerking is like shaking your butt while you’re dancing. It has it’s origin in the word “footwork.” Get it? Twerk.

Anyway, while J.C. was shaking his butt bringing us coffee refills, we enjoyed a brunch-type-thing of corned beef hash (for me) and a beautiful looking ham and cheese and egg pannini (for Leah).

We’ll be going back. Wanna come with?

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