Imagine a spick-and-span roadside cafe, Wyoming, 1970. About 10 years previous, the owners (Mr. and Mrs. Neil Stuckles) decked the place out with Gunsmoke-inspired decorations: wagon wheels, art prints of Bama and Catlin paintings, Navajo blankets, real pinewood panelling, and a pair of crossed Remington repeaters. The place smells like french fries, coffee, sagebrush and diesel. Next to the register is a display case selling all four kinds of Wrigley’s gum, and a few Indian trinkets handmade on the nearby rez. But because it was all decorated in the 1960s, this stuff has a kind of Googie space-age twist on it. Red checker tablecoths over teal formica with shiny vinyl seats. The Stuckles call it Pinto.
Mr. Stuckles, a former ranchhand, runs the back kitchen. Years of slinging hash as a cookie on the ranch taught him two things really well: grass-fed steak, hot offa steer’s ass; and beans. Mrs. Stuckles bakes a mean, mean pie; especially the fruity kind. And you can wash this all back with free coffee, better to keep your eyes open when you’re back out on the road.
My version of Pinto would transplant that scene — the road trip, the usual EAT roadsign, the unexpected quality — into the requisite North Portland locale. There aren’t a lot of menu options to confuse you: steaks, burgers, maybe trout when it’s in good season, a pot pie or two. And chili and beans. Western comfort food. Each dish may have a few variations, “Mexicali” style or whatnot. And breakfast all day long.
Pinto serves only grass-fed, organic Oregon Country Beef, local vegetables in season, and plenty of vegetarian and vegan options on the “Beans” side of the menu. Pies and breads are baked on the premises. And free coffee with every entree.
Because we’re in North Portland, let’s throw in Open 24 Hours, to catch the post-bar crowd, and maybe a deal with Voodoo Donuts.
Jenny and I actually came up with this idea a couple of years ago. We were imagining a restaurant with a range of entrees for both of us (myself a hearty carnivore and herself not so much); in fact, part of Pinto’s appeal is that it would be hard for any American person not to want to eat there. The Oregon version would sell local beers and wines. This would all happen at prices somewhere south of, for example, Higgins. A good place to take your parents, or a good answer to “I don’t know, where do you want to eat?”
This Very Good Idea is free for the taking. Hell, I might pay someone to open this joint.
Remember halogen floor lamps? You know, the kind that pointed at the ceiling (because of course it's the ceiling that needs to be well-lit). Remember how they'd get so hot they'd scorch your drywall? And sometimes they had a fancy French name, I think it was torchiere. I shudder to think how much electricity they ate up. For a while there (i.e. the 1990s) it seemed like every time I helped a friend move, we had to wrestle with one of those horrible torchieres. They were awkward to fit around all the other crap in the pickup. And usually someone had left it on, so it was really hot, and we'd have to wait until the very end to load it in. I actually, at one point in my life, owned two of those preposterous things.
Reading over some posts from before our move to China I was reminded of how frequently I used to 