Food Cart Capital; Dump Lunch

I find Portland to be very diverse, not ethnically or “color-wise” per se, but culturally, or sub-culturally should I say; hippies, goths, pierced, inked, sober, high,… all co-existing in this peculiar city. And it is the people that make it peculiar.The city is naturally located in a beautiful corner, with rivers and mountains and greens, but is overshadowed by an overcast of clouds and mists of rain, and cracked streets and filth spotted sidewalks, which give it shabbiness and character. Portland does have character.

I walked over the bridge past the long line that still stood patiently outside of Voodoo Doughnuts (which I have yet to try), into the heart of downtown, passing by rows and rows of food carts, not stopping until I got to one particular one: Dump Truck. It’s a yellow cart that stands higher than it’s neighbors, getting me on my tiptoes to reach for my order, selling nothing but dumplings (Ah, now you get it). In fact, they offer a dessert dumpling- think apple pie- though I did not try it and so have nothing to write about there.

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What I ordered was also non-conventional of a high, if not higher magnitude. My lunch was a box of eight bacon cheeseburger dumplings, steamed. I filled a little sauce cup with their “secret sauce”, what they suggest for this particular dumpling of theirs, and a cup with sweet but spicy chili sauce, just because I like it hot.

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 I took my box, gratifyingly warm, with the sauces, a plastic fork, and a few napkins, and walked a few meters over to the red brick square and set up. I sat on the stairs, poked my fork into a dumpling, thinking I should have ordered the sampler, instead of putting all my eggs in the same basket. I was surprised, pleasantly surprised, in what awaited me inside. My mind had created the anticipation of crumbles of hamburger meat, crispy crunchy bits of bacon, and an ooze of American cheese. It was far from what I had expected, and gladly so. The Dump Truck made it work. It was surprisingly… enjoyable, this bacon cheeseburger dumpling of theirs. The bacon was mildly rendered, soft but thin and delicate, and hallelujah, I detected no slices of American cheese; it was more like a sauce, almost like a light gravy, but cheesy and meaty. And there were onions- I think it was the onions that brought it all together.

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The secret sauce though, was strictly unnecessary- even nasty. Although I only know of Hamburger Helper through tv commercials and passing by the boxes in the supermarket aisles, the addition of the sauce made me think I was eating pasta and Hamburger Helper with ketchup on top. And their Secret Sauce did remind me of ketchup, but tangier, and of a lighter color, transforming a creative and surprisingly delicious dumpling into a reminiscence of McDonald’s. I see no reason why their “secret sauce” should remain a secret- I for one would never be interested in stealing the recipe. I did prefer it with the chili sauce, although only a touch. It didn’t need sauce at all if you ask me; I didn’t want to mask the interesting flavors of itself with something from a squeeze bottle, and its innards were moist from what I’m calling the gravy, to survive without being dipped into anything else.

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And so, I had my bacon cheeseburger dumplings under the Portland clouds while people watching the homeless with a cardboard sign begging for money for food and weed, French speaking tourists giggling as they heard their voices echo in the center of the square’s corner, and a young man cautiously climbing the stairs next to me, feeling the ground ahead of him with a long branch before his every step. After making the last step, holding his arms high and victorious, he yelled, “You thought I was blind, didn’t you?”.

You must agree, Portland does have character.


Food Cart Capital- First Impressions

Today I write from Portland. Not Portland, Maine, a mere three hour drive from home, where the sun shines and the breeze cools your shoulders, while the birds whistle and the cold ocean waves slap the rocks on shore, and I sit looking out to the lighthouse, indulging in lobster, the best there is, sweet and just hauled in from the water, served with clarified butter and a nut cracker, boiled to order in the ocean water that now trickles down my arm. I write from Portland, Oregon, located in the Pacific Northwest, inland from the coast, giving me sunburn on Saturday, rain and cloudy skies on Sunday, and temperatures lower than what I had pictured for late June anywhere on the West Coast.

It’s a city whose scenery, unlike it’s East Coast namesake, did not take my breath away. It’s population and energy is what immediately had me sold. We arrived too early for hotel check-in, on the only sunny day we have yet seen, and perfectly in time for their Saturday Market. So, we dropped our bags and walked across the long bridge over the river right into the rows of food and art stands packed with locals, tourists, and a heavily inked population. Tattoos seem to be quite popular in Portland, and I’m secretly wishing if only I had my sister here with me, because this would be the perfect place to get a first piece; she would go first, and then hold my hand while she distracts me from the pain and buzzing sounds. Boh, as the guinea pig would say. I should just get a henna tattoo next Saturday Market.

A small corner among the vast of my knowledge acquired through the Food and Travel channels, is that Portland is the food cart capital. Move over NYC. Rows and rows of trucks stand parked, permanently, along the streets of downtown, or propped in parking lots, some catering to the business crowd, some to the hungover late night bingers. And so, secretly, I was psyched to come to Portland just for the food carts really. Surprise, surprise.


My first day here though, was a mere introduction, spent happily at the Saturday Market. For lunch, we chose to stand in the longest queu of famished crowds, for a greek cart whose name I shamefully forgot, or did not ever catch. Angelina’s possibly? I ordered a beef and lamb gyros, and still not sure of the pronunciation, j or g, will I ever know? I asked for the works, strips of crisp cucumber and crumbles of feta that were actually impressingly quite tasty. No tomatoes, of course, and no onions, just the greens. And a baklava for dessert.

As we stood in line, soaking up the line, people passed and said aloud what I was hoping, “Look at the line for this one. It must be good.” Oh, but it was. We sat by the fountains and bit into the wrap, and the yogurt dressing dribbling down my chin and fingers was divine. Day one in Portland, street food contently in my belly, my first impression was a positive one.