A Portland Village of a Different Kind

One of the big differences between east and west Portland is that the rolling semi-regular grid layout of the east side means that in most cases, the neighborhoods are rather loosely defined, blending into each other in the way that they do in, say, Midtown Manhattan.

There are exceptions, of course, such as Ladd's Addition, where the street grid is broken in a distinct recognizable way, but in many cases, the east-side boundaries between one neighborhood and another are based on more subtle differences or historical convention at this point. One notices the boundaries only after having lived in that part of town for a while.

On the west side, things are very different. Even in downtown, where the streets are often gridlike, the pattern is broken enough, and the streetscape heterogeneous enough, that it is easy for even a new arrival to notice where one area begins and another begins.

Here in SW Portland, among the West Hills that run along the river, it's even more extreme. There are no grid steets here, except on a micro level. The boulevards wind in spaghetti fashion, sometimes intersecting the same streets more than once. Driving for more than a mile, finds oneself pointed in every direction of the compass, without ever using one's turn signals.

As a consequence, the SW neighborhoods have boundaries defined by the crest of ridges. Each neighborhood can be a distinct valley. It's obvious when one is transitioning from one to another.

Last night after Red got back from her clinic shift, we hopped back into her and drove the short distance along Capitol Highway (which is not really a highway anymore, just a normal two-lane artery), over the ridge to the nearby area known as Multnomah Village. Although it shares the appelation "Village" with the suburban lifestyle center called Bridgeport Village, the two places couldn't be more distinct in character.

Multnomah Village is essentially a residential glen among the hills anchored by a quaint one-street ancient commercial area that one would take at first glance as a small upscale boutique town. There's an independent bookstore, an independent toy store, several gift stores, commercial offices, a Thai restaurant, a tiny independent coffee shop, and even Starbucks located inside an old converted residential house (which I have yet to visit).

One the other hand, MV remote and relatively inaccessible from I-5 and other true highways, so there are few of the types of car-oriented businesses one sees even here in Hillsdale, which has a true strip mall as its anchor (albeit one with an independent natural foods grocery).

Our destination last night was a place called Renner's Grill, an ancient bar along the main street of the village. Its script red neon is prominent as one approaches. Since 1939.

I'd been to Renner's recently by myself enjoyed a cheese burger at the while the regulars watched in misery as the Ducks lost to Arizona on ESPN. It's a tiny but cozy place, with closet-like restrooms and low ceiling.

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It turns out Wednesday is Bingo night, so the place was packed. We were lucky to find two bar stools right next to each other by the door. The shelf behind the bar was crowded with donated toys for  Christmas, and blinking colored lights gave the place a very convivial feel.

Even though it felt like an old dive bar, packed with hipsters and regulars, the service was impeccable. And despite being ancient, it seemed clean and well-run with a spirit of pride. We both agreed Jon Taffer would approve. 

For one thing, even though the place was packed, one of the staff members noticed our confusion looking for seats and ushered to open stools. The bartender was very patient as I explained that only drink dark beer. She put her hand on mine as she said that if I didn't like the one she recommended, she would take it back. The owner/manager came by to check up on our experience, and spontaneously explained why it was so busy that night.

The burgers and fries were delicious, served attractively on baskets with red and white paper. Moreover the atmosphere so nice that I even loosened up, overcame my usual standoffish grumpiness, and conversed with the woman on the stool next to me, who had struck me up for a conversation after the guy on the other side of her had been rather creepy and asked her if she was a cop. Actually, as I told Red, I had thought the woman was a tranny until she talked to me and I heard her voice. This is, after all, still Portland.