Tag Archives: NW

Sunday supper club #5: Bridgeport Tonsil Hockey

I’ll get this out of the way–no, I didn’t get any action.

The re-invigorated Bridgeport Brewpub re-opened recently, and the SSC crew hit it this past Sunday–an overcast, wet and warm day that happened to victimize us all, once again, by taking an hour of my life that I won’t get back until I no longer miss it.

seriously folks, I grew up sans daylight savings. I do not get it. I’m not even a great appreciator of 10pm daylight. It fucks with me.

Anyway, NW 13th and Marshall is the edge of the ever-expanding cancer that is the new revamped Pearl district, and the Bridgeport renovation is the newest addition to the high society vibe. The facility itself is a beautiful renovation, all dark wood, black laminate and steel. There are three zones–the pub, the bar and the restaurant. More than unique spaces, there are separate menus.

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Sunday supper club #1: Henry's on 12th

For a few months now two friends of mine and I have ventured out in search of interesting eats on Sundays. We’ve hit several interesting places, a couple of really good places, and some strange things have occurred. I’ve been remiss in describing them here, so I’ll work backwards and get something up about the memorable visits we’ve made up to now. I’m not certain of my cohorts’ comfort level in regards to Anonymity, so we’ll call them Billy’s Dad and Big L.

Yesterday we set out to visit Mayuri, a recently reviewed Indian restaurant in the bowels of beavertron. In retrospect, more thought should have gone into this, but when you have three hungry people recovering from a night of drinking, planning really goes by the way-side. Big L neglected to point out they closed at 2:30 until we’d already gotten lost three times, and Billy’s Dad was getting grumpy in that way that all hungover people jonesing for calories do–in addition to getting lost, the phone calls to Mayuri yielded some of the most worthless driving directions not extracted from a Chinese take-out joint. By the time we found Mayuri, it was 2:15. We had just enough time to walk in, smell curry, and get REALLY hungry.

When you talk to or read about the infamous ‘Atkins diet,’ believers speak about a state called ‘ketosis’ or the point at which your body is burning excess fat, not calories that you’ve absorbed recently. Many liken it to a ‘high,’ which I assume happens more frequently for ex-stoners than fat mormons, but that’s just a hunch. We were stuck in the parking lot of a Fred Meyers the size of a city block, hungry, fresh from curry-smell inundation, and wondering just what the fuck to do. So we went to Fred Meyer. In our Ketotic states, we were suitably bitchslapped ‘cross the face with the bright lights, brighter labels and tuna jerky that fill the average Fred Meyer. I’ve been more discombobulated in a store before, but that involved three hits of Acid and an entire shopping mall. We got supplies, including (I shit you not) “a big ol’ can of whoop-ass” which is apparently an energy drink containing 200 calories and 440% of my daily value of B6. We began our expedition back to the city and a fervent discussion of where we should go.

This is really where it all started to go awry. Big L pointed out that it was getting so late, we could start drinking and hit a happy hour at one of the nicer bars in uptown NW. Now remember, we haven’t eaten yet, and the ‘big ol’ can of whoop ass’ was eating a hole in my stomach faster than a pint of drain-o. First we took a shot at the Bridgeport Ale house, which is to re-open after a mammoth renovation. We were a few weeks early; it was closed. Next we shot for Henry’s on 12th, but when we ‘shoot’ for something, we actually drive in circles for a bit and generally lose sight of our goals.

We finally land at Henry’s. When we walked in, I was convinced it was a chain restaurant. It was just too polished– dark walls and wood, theatrical lighting, hostesses and stacks of those table pagers that help overworked waitstaff keep track of orders and tables. I haven’t seen those things outside of giant sports bars. Henry’s is a giant sports bar, but a refined, yuppie, strip-of-ice-embedded-in-the-bar-to-keep-your-pint-cold kind of place. It is also a bring-your-girlfriend-with-a-fake-tan-and-be-secure-knowing-there-are-hundreds-of-esoteric-fluorescent-drinks-in-cocktail-glasses kind of place. They had a ridiculous number of taps, a veritable maze, but our spritely barkeep assured us they were organized well and it didn’t take her long to master the necessary navigation. I’d fail, I’m sure. The happy hour menu provided some predictable treats, namely crab cakes, buffalo wings and crosscut fries. Billy’s Dad found the wings pedestrian, but Big L liked her crab cakes. The fries were quite good, fried correctly (meaning twice) and probably in peanut oil, which most restaurants are too cheap to use. I had an unlikely offering for a happy hour menu, a mango and avocado salad. The salad was a nice stack of run-o-the-mill spring greens mix with a tasty but unspectacular cilantro vinaigrette constructed with crispy wonton wrappers, topped with a healthy smattering of daikon sprouts on top. yes, I am sufficiently nerdy that I recognize daikon sprouts.

We sat, half-heartedly watched the Pro-bowl, ate food, drank too much, and generally had a good time. The yuppieness of the place did get to us, and we hit a new dive bar owned by an old familiar barkeep on the way back to balance it all out.

Not an asupicious start to the recollectable Sunday Supper Club, but there are better tales of woe and wickedness from other excursions.