1. My perfectly good barfly-avec-Joycean Moment of Hope story was yanked from under me by my “friends” last night and turned into a discussion of short men, large breasts, and current Darwinian trends in behavioral psychology.
2. This was nose deep into yet another Negroni and platefuls of succulent fried pork of many ways, so no one really minded, not the least of all me.
3. Did I mention the pork? Deep dishes of mahogany hunks pillowed by grilled apple slices and pomegranate seeds. Chewy-skinned, buttery-fatted belly on lentils. Bacon nuggets with a date and lozenge of Manchego cheese inside. Duck so good it might as well have been pork. Mild pork sausage as a chaser. And then another dish of pork confit.
4. Yes, we were at Belly, Eugene’s best restaurant, which was crowded, happy, warm, joyous, and porcine. A passing train shakes the restaurant. The black waterworks pipe thing in the front says steam punk, the paintings say Goodwill, the menu says eat me, bitches. Another dish of pork arrives. Life does not get much better than this. And I’m so happy the restaurant seems to be doing well.
5. You, too, can have your stories lost in a pork-glutted frenzy if you visit them at 291 E. 5th Avenue.