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DON’T MISS THIS ONE FROM LINDNER

 I had to run to the grocery store a while ago to pick up some Thai chiles. There’s a new checker who hasn’t quite mastered the job yet. Young guy, pleasant demeanor, mid-twenties. The guy he was dealing with was maybe my age, and was clearly NOT happy that the checker had to ask him what kind of oranges these are, is this organic or regular parsley, etc. The customer was dressed like a person of means. Just in the two or three minutes I was there, I heard him let out a big “siiiiigh” whenever the checker had to look up the product code.

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He finally said; “Do you want me to come back there and help you figure this out?” The kid was obviously flummoxed. His face turned red, but he kept his cool.

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So I butted in to the customer: “Hey buddy, how’ve you been? Long time no see!”

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He looks at me for a second as he tries to place where he knows me from. “I’m doing okay man. How’ve you been?”

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“I’m fine. Just glad it finally cooled off. Last week was brutal, wasn’t it?”

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The checker finishes with Mr. Grumpy, he runs his credit card, then he says to me; “It was good seeing you. Stay well.” I bid him adieu.

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The checker asked me; “You know that guy?”

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“Nope, never seen him before in my life. But I saw him giving you a hard time, so I thought you could use a break. Whenever someone's confronted with a ‘where do I know them from’ scenario, most people automatically snap into their best behavior mode.”

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That asshole will probably spend the rest of the day trying to “remember” who I am. 😃

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https://www.facebook.com/macbruce://www.facebook.com/macbruce

ON THE ROAD WITH LINDNER

 No, that’s not Charles Manson in his teens. That’s yours truly. I know I’m a day late for Throwback Thursday, but that’s due to the calendar, not me being tardy.

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This picture was taken on July 2nd, 1971… 50 years ago TODAY. When I was 19, I hitchhiked from eastern Turkey to London. This was the waterfront of either Thessaloniki or Kavala, Greece, I’m not sure which.

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I could write an entire book on the slapstick farce that unfolded at the border between Turkey and Greece ALONE. Keep in mind the times, and the history between the two nations. Imagine some rube from South Korea casually skipping into North Korea dressed like an extra from Easy Rider—to say nothing of my encounter at a Greek bank where I tried to exchange Turkish lira for Greek drachmas [hint: don’t do that]. I was finally able to do so, but I took a beating on the exchange rate. But from Skopje, Macedonia northwestward, things were relatively incident-free.

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About my attire: Those pants were custom tailored in Istanbul from suede. I even had a pair of matching boots cut from the same swath of hide. I don’t remember where I got that shirt thingy, but it was before Istanbul. Probably Diyarbakir, a Kurdish city in eastern Turkey. It gave me a kind of Doris Day vibe, dontch’ya think?

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From Greece, I headed northwesterly into (what was then) Yugoslavia. Then into Austria and Germany, then Holland where I hooked up with some friends with a VW bug. We drove up to Denmark, I bade them farewell there, then off I went to England, then New York, then home.

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The picture was taken with a Polaroid by a friend I met along the way from New Zealand. He had hitchhiked all the way from Bangladesh with his brother, but the brother was killed by tribesmen in Pakistan.

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Anyway… happy half century of non-hippiedom to me. Scroungy lookin’ varmint that I was. Hard to believe I was selling cars at a Ford dealer dressed in cranberry double-knit slacks and white patent leather shoes a year after this was taken. 🤦🏻‍♂️ I’m not sure which was worse.

GOING TO THE MAT WITH LINDNER

 He was a mountainous man, standing 6’6” tall, tipping the scales at 235 pounds. He started his wrestling career at age 27, calling himself the “Zebra Kid.” He went on to wrestle under several other stage names, including Chief Chewacki, and eventually, under his real name.

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His wrestling career waned in his late thirties, so he took a job as a bouncer. From there, he got into the “muscle” end of the Colombo crime family—his specialty being arson. He once dipped a tampon in kerosene, tied it to a mouse’s tail, lit it, and turned it loose in the establishment of his target. Another of his ploys was to use a wind-up cuckoo clock as a timer. He’d scatter kerosene soaked rags on the floor, place a lit candle in front of the door of the cuckoo clock, so that when the door opened, it would knock over the candle and the Rube Goldberg contraption incinerated the entire building.

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The law finally caught up with him. He was found guilty of multiple charges and sent up to Riker’s Island in the Bronx, where he rubbed elbows with other “goodfellas” from all over New York. Upon his release, he went back to the Colombos, where he worked as a bodyguard for the Caporegimes of the Colombo family.

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Eventually, he left the world of organized crime and decided to try his hand at acting. He mostly did bit parts here and there in the late ‘60s and early ‘70s, until he finally got his big break.

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His real name was Lenny Montana. He died in 1992, not known as a wrestler or as a mafia punk, but as an actor. The actor who played Luca Brasi.

LINDNER’S CULINARY WORLD

 🚨 WARNING: I’m gonna mention it one last time, so all you anti-gourmands out there can exercise your gag reflexes once more. On second thought, I WON’T mention it. I’ll just emoji it: I braised, larded, rubbed, then smoked a 🐄 👅 last week. It actually cost me a couple of squeamish Facebook friends, but that’s not my problem. It’s theirs.

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Reading back through the comments (it was an all-day ordeal over three posts), is like a Rorschach test for foodies and non-foodies alike. They run the gamut from “Bravo!” to “ICK!” to “Is that an ox dick?” But I was struck by how many people said “That seems like a lot of work for a sandwich.” Which in fairness to them, if cooking isn’t your passion, is a reasonable observation.

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But I didn’t do all that just to eat it. I did it because I LOVE the process. Mapping out a recipe is not unlike restoring a car or an antique radio, both of which I’ve also done. And in the end with a great recipe, there’s a bit of a letdown once you’re done. Because all that’s left to do is to eat the damned thing. :/ The JOY comes from the journey. Not crossing the finish line.

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The same argument could be made for every other art form (and yes, cooking IS an art form). You don’t restore an 80 year old tube radio because you want to hear a ball game. You do it out of love for the hobby. I doubt Pope Julius II told Michelangelo “Seems like a lot of work just to paint a ceiling.” Or a potential customer telling Ettore Bugatti “Seems like a lot of work just to make a machine to drive back and forth to work every day.”

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No. The love goes INTO the process—it isn’t the culmination of the process. Every elaborate sand castle on the beach returns to the sea within hours. But that doesn’t deter sand sculptors from frantically building them before the tide comes in. In fact, that they’re fleeting isn’t a consideration. It’s part of the challenge. Artists do what they do out of passion for their art form.

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I was never any good at sports. I can’t sculpt wet sand, I can’t paint, I can’t dance, sing, play a musical instrument, act or write poetry. But dammit, if you give me a chef's knife, a gas stove and fifty bucks, I’ll whip up something you’ve probably never had before—and if you keep and open mind, you might even like it. But if a picture of a particular ingredient makes you turn away in disgust, then you’re probably not cut out for membership in the Intrepid Foodie’s Guild anyway.  👨🏻‍🍳

LINDNER’S WORLD & OURS

 I drove down to be with the kid for her birthday yesterday. Yes, “the kid.” She may be 37, but she’ll always be my little girl. She lives in a fly speck of a town, but it has the bare essentials of life; a brewery and a winery. We all walked down to the winery, enjoyed Neapolitan style pizza crafted by an actual Neapolitan chef, Oregon Pinot Noir, and watched the Great Blue Herons and Western Ospreys fish the river from a patio perched above it.

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As a not-so-pleasant aside, for the first time, I’m truly worried about the future of this beautiful state. The housing crisis has reached a fever-pitch. For several years now, driving through Portland has started to look like a scene from some post-apocalyptic film. There are tents and ramshackle encampments beneath all the overpasses, along the freeways, on sidewalks, even in some parks. Between Covid throwing folks out of work and the INSANE explosion of real estate values, many people have been forced out of their homes to no fault of their own.

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The Portland situation has been getting worse for several years, but I wasn’t prepared for what I saw yesterday: Driving down I-5 into Salem, Oregon’s Capitol city... homeless camps there too. Then through Corvallis, a college town. MORE tent encampments crammed under overpasses. I saw two little children standing outside one tent.

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What concerns me beyond this instant poverty, are any potential solutions, which I cannot foresee. Folks are being squeezed out of their homes—and out of society—faster than new jobs and affordable structures are being created. Where does this end? People have to live SOMEWHERE, so chasing them off doesn’t solve anything.

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I’m so glad my daughter is established, with a steady career and a solid roof over her head. The same goes for myself. We’re both (relatively) safe. But I have NEVER seen so many Oregonians living in squalor before. The unemployment figures don’t correspond with the homelessness figures. It’s about the cost of available housing... and rent. Which is going nowhere but up.

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Sorry for the downer post, but it worries me. And if it can happen in Oregon, it can happen where you live too.

FOLLOW UP TO LINDNER’S STORY

 This is a follow-up to my yarn this morning about Bobby. But I’m going to try to keep this short, because I’m WIPED OUT, and I truly need some rest.

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So as I wrote this morning, Bobby and I chatted last night. He told me a little about himself, and that he lived in the Portland area. I told him what I do, and that I serve coffee on Saturdays at the Beaverton Farmer’s Market.

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Almost exactly at closing time at the market today, a tall guy walks up and asks; “Are you Bruce?” One glance into those eyes, and I knew immediately it was him. “Bobby! It is so GREAT to meet you!”

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That face... a perfect blend of his mother’s fair complexion and his father’s distinctive, piercing eyes. Always focused on yours as he talks... EXACTLY like his dad. It was both déjà vu and a little disarming! Like; Oh, hell yes, I remember that look!!

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The last 30-40 minutes of my Saturday is pandemonium. I have to get the espresso machine back-flushed and cleaned up, everything put away, bleach and dry the last of my bills, while still serving the last few caffeine stragglers. So we talked as I worked. Sorry, I didn’t think to take a selfie. Next time, I promise.

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I can only tell you this from the 15 minutes we talked. He is HUNGRY to learn as much as he can about his father. And when we can sit down and actually talk, I won’t whitewash things. He’s a highly intelligent young man, and he deserves to hear the truth. But today wasn’t the day for that. Maybe sometime in the coming week we can rendezvous somewhere.

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Thanks for all your kind comments on the earlier thread. I’ll read them after my na... 💤

LINDNER IS A GREAT WRITER

 👉🏼 The names are fictitious, the story isn’t 👈🏼

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When I first came to Oregon in 1972, I met this rowdy group of four guys who all grew up together. They welcomed me into their group with few reservations. We shared two old apartments above a hobby store. Rent was $50.00 per month—and there were a few occasions when one or more of us failed to come up with our portion. 🙄

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There was an apartment next to ours where three girls were living under similarly squalid conditions, so... you know. We were all twenty years old, they were all twenty years old. Biology happens.

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I’ll call the guys John, Steve, Ron and Ken. And the girls; Jane, Debbie and Donna.

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John and Jane got married about a year later. They had a son that they named Bobby, after John’s father. The marriage was a disaster from the get-go. It ended with John’s death in early 1974. Jane remarried, had a daughter, and they raised Bobby and his half-sister together.

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Over the decades, the rest of us made an effort to keep in touch. But due to lifestyle choices, it was difficult. Debbie got into the seedier side of life. She used to call me drunk off her ass in the middle of the night to tell me her problems. No one’s heard from her since the early eighties, which frankly, is a blessing. Donna died from AIDS during the early years of the epidemic.

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Maybe five years after John’s death, Ron, who was John’s closest friend, left Oregon for parts unknown. Last we heard, he was in Missouri, but I’ve tried Googling him to no avail. Considering his lifestyle, I’d be amazed if he’s still alive. That left Steve, Ken, and yours truly from the old gang.

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Steve passed away from natural causes maybe 8-10 years ago, Ken followed a couple of years later in a traffic accident here in Portland. Ken and I remained close friends to the end. I still miss our Sunday meetups over coffee and politics.

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So I was rummaging through some pictures of the old gang last night. There’s Ron, chugging bottles of Annie Green Springs as if it was tap water. Jane, standing next to her white ‘66 Malibu. And John holding his newborn son, Bobby. Bobby! I wonder whatever became of Bobby!

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So I Googled him too. Lo and behold, he still lives in the Portland area. He’s 47 years old, a professional, so I took a chance and gave him a call.

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“Hi, is this Bobby?”

 

“Speaking.”

 

“Bobby, you don’t know me, but I used to be a friend of your parent’s back in the ‘70s.”

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He was bowled over! Not only was he happy to hear from me, but he actually remembered me. “Aren’t you the guy with the reptiles? Seems I remember mom taking me to your apartment and you had lizards and snakes?”

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“That is I. Two boa constrictors, Julius Squeezer and Cleopatra.”

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We yakked and yakked, and made tentative plans to get together soon. He has a million questions, which I’ll do my best to answer as diplomatically as possible.

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Then I asked him; “How’s your mom doing? I haven’t heard from her in at least ten years!”

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“Sadly, she passed away in 2012 of natural causes.”

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Of all the deaths within that group, hers is the one that shocks me the most. The others, to one degree or another, all lived life close to the edge. Jane didn’t.

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My first instinct upon hearing of her passing was to get on the phone and call the others in our old group with the sad news. But then it hit me: they’re ALL gone. There’s no one left that I can reminisce with over our misadventures and escapades during those days.

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It’s a very, very surreal feeling. Jane’s death leaves me, to borrow from James Bond; the last rat standing.  🐀

https://www.facebook.com/macbruce

LINDNER’S JAVA WORLD

 One of my favorite things about serving at the Beaverton Farmer’s Market all these (24) years, has been watching the little kids grow up. Family farms often include the kids on market day, so I’ve seen oodles of them go from babies to having babies. In fact, I’ve been honored to officiate at the weddings of three market kids—one marriage is in dissolution, the other two are holding steady. A yield of four babies between them thus far.

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But I also see the children and grandchildren of my customers as they grow. Including one young girl whom I call “Customer X.” Her parents bring her and her two girlfriends to the market with them almost every Saturday, then they cut the girls loose while the parents shop for flowers and produce. I’m guesstimating they're in their early teens. They’re energetic as hell, already wound up when they arrive. So where’s the first place they go? To the Javamobile. I always tease Customer X, and she dishes it right back.

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Keep three things in mind:

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1) The line at the coffee truck is always 8-12 people deep, nonstop, all day long. I schmooze with friends and customers as I work, but I have to keep the line moving. And kids order the DARNEDEST things. 🤮  

 

2) At Customer X’s age, she’s midway between being a bona fide coffee drinker and a typical tween sugar-junkie. Kids that age loooove the sweet, but they’re beginning to dabble in the strong.

 

3) Coffee is a quasi-taboo to them. They know it’s not bad, but it’s always been “for grownups only.” And now that they’re on the cusp, they want to experiment. Much to the consternation of old, overworked baristas. 😩 

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Her two friends ordered first: two 16 ounce iced mochas with whipped cream (of course). Boom! Done in one minute. Customer X: “I want something cold, but I can’t decide. What do you suggest?”

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Me: “Oh no, I can’t do that.”

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X: “What do you drink?”

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“Black coffee.”

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(She's literally doing this 🤔, looking at the milk options sign).

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“Okay, I want your biggest iced Oregon Chai. Can I get that with espresso in it?”

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“Sure. But keep in mind that my biggest is 24 ounces. How many shots of espresso do you want?”

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“Three.” <this kid weighs maybe 85 pounds, soaking wet. Besides, without parental approval, I didn’t want to go there.>

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“That’s a lot. Are you sure you want that much?” <I look out at the line behind her. The natives were fidgeting restlessly>.

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“Okay, just one then.”

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“So a 24 ounce iced Oregon Chai with a shot of espresso, coming right up, your majesty.”

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“Oh, and with almond milk. No, wait! You have macadamia nut milk now? I want that!”

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“Okay, but that stuff is expen...”

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“That’s what I want. What kind of syrup would go good with that?”

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“You want a syrup too? Well, I make a homemade cardamom syrup that goes well with Chai.”

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“No, I tried that two weeks ago. I want to try something else <two people near the end of the line peel away>

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“The all-natural Turkish hazelnut is good, but it costs a little more.”

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“I want that.”

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“Okay. So a 24 ounce iced Oregon Chai with one shot of espresso, Turkish hazelnut syrup, and macadamia nut milk in place of dairy. Is that correct?”

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“Please. But make it two espresso shots instead of one. And light ice. How much will that be?”

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“I have no idea.”

LINDNER’S COFFEE WORLD

 Several months before I left my last (official) job in 1994, I had already plotted out what I planned to do. I was gonna buy myself a cargo van and stuff an espresso bar in it, then tootle around town hustling lattes and goodies in business parks and at special events. I was SURE no one else had thought of doing this, until one day when my girlfriend Becky pointed out an old mail truck someone had converted into a coffee truck... oh. 😳 Aaaaand a few weeks later when I spotted this big hulking black cargo van with “Coffee Encounters” scrawled on it parked in a bank parking lot, selling coffee to passers by. (Check out the date stamp on the top picture: 9/8/92. That was nearly two years before I started Pony Espresso).

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So just for the hell of it, I pulled in to scope it out. I walked up (being careful to guard my covetousness) and asked the guy in the window; “How’s this working out for you? I’ve been thinking of doing the same thing!” Turns out the guy was pretty amiable, and unless he had customers waiting, he was quite forthcoming about the mobile coffee business. Then he asked me; “So who have you hired to build your coffee truck?” Hired? No one. I thought I’d just kinda’ wing it. 🙄 So he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse: “How about you contract with me and my subcontractors to build it for you?” And the rest was history.

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That young fella was named Alan Shapiro. True to his word, he hired a carpenter and an all-around electrician/engineer/handyman to build Javamobile I for me. Six months later, I was living the dream, scooting around Portland, self-employed at long last.

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Alan and I have been friends ever since, though not always in constant contact. He is one BUSY guy. After he got out of the coffee truck business in 1995 (more on that in a bit—funny story), he got into the craft beer biz with Pike Brewing Company up in Seattle. A few years later, he launched his own craft beer and hard cider business called SBS Imports. Then ten years ago, back here in Portland, he launched the “Cider Summit,” a ginormous outdoor hard cider festival down on the South Waterfront. But since Covid came along... yeah, you guessed it: No mas outdoor Cider Summit. So he’s been offering these “Festival To-Go” kits online, which his peeps ship nationwide (shameless plug for an old friend, mentor, and builder of Javamobile I. If you’re interested in trying some authentic Pacific Northwest hooch, here’s your chance).

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www.CiderSummit.com and on Facebook at Facebook.com/CiderSummit.

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So back to Alan’s ‘Coffee Encounters’ encounter with thermodynamics. As you can see from the pictures, his coffee truck was a beast. The generator was powered by a Nissan 1200 four cylinder car engine. Which meant it required plenty of air circulation to prevent it from going thermonuclear. And the framing of the counters, bulkheads etc. was of good old two-by-fours. I didn’t witness the event personally, but there was that fine day when the heat given off by 1200 cc’s of Nissan fury ignited the construction material surrounding the generator, and Alan’s truck was observed by hundreds of Portland citizens as a comet streaking up Macadam Avenue, billows of smoke pouring from its aft end.

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Alas, no permanent harm done, but at that point, I think he was ready to bail on the mobile espresso biz. As with my Javamobile, those damned generators are the Achilles Heel of the whole food truck shtick. They DO require lots of maintenance, TLC, and uh... fire extinguishers.

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Anyway, sorry for the long tome. It was good reconnecting with Alan recently and getting caught up. If you’re interested in sampling his wares, other beneficiaries of Cider Summit are DoveLewis veterinary hospital and Cascade Blues Association. So it’s not ONLY about biz—and the buzz. 🥴

LIFE & TIMES OF LINDNER

 Back in the saddle! A little chilly this morning, but 50° warmer than it was yesterday going over Mount Hood. 🥶

Lindner is at the Beaverton Outdoor Market.