END OF THE CHEESE STEAK TRAIL IN OREGON

NW 23rd and Northrup.

A food obsession isn’t a pretty thing.

It makes you do things you’d rather not do, go places you shouldn’t.

The best example in Portland, Oregon is the famous Poc Poc in SE.

Where do you go after Poc Poc? Thailand, of course, and take Anthony Bourdain with you to get it right.

Do you really want to go to Thailand?

My current food thing isn’t from Asia.

It’s from Philadelphia.

Maybe it’s selective memory but I can still taste the cheese steaks made in South Philly where I lived in the mid-70’s.

It happens every time I see the words. My nose perks up. I start involuntary swallowing like a dog watching his dinner bowl.

If I had a tail it’d be wagging.

Call it comfort food but instead of reminding me of home and momma, cheese  steaks live in my early twenties.

I had to join the army and go to Philadelphia before I’d even heard of one. Getting stationed at the Defense Personnel Support Center helped.

The South Philly neighborhood started right across the street.

My sergeant mentioned a cheese steak.

“A what?” I asked?

“Cheese steak. You never heard a cheese steak? You gotta be kidding. Everyone knows the best sandwich ever invented and the best of the best right here. Here. This part of town. The city’s best. You could swing a cat and hit the top of the top. Come on, let’s go.”

Call it cheese steak-bonding.

Have I found anything to replace those food memories? No, but I keep trying. Portland baby boomers need to keep searching, not settling though it would take the cheese steak of cheese steaks to crowd Philadelphia.

So you know, I’ve chased cheese steak rumors from NE Portland to SE and even the SW suburbs. For you.

The cheese steak quest ended in NW Portland. Today.

I walked NW 21st, up Everett, then north on 23rd headed for Pettygrove.

The place still reminds me of South Philly and that’s when it hit. I resisted stopping for a bite of anything. You train yourself or else spend the day on a cheese steak expedition. Again.

Besides, I wasn’t hungry, not that it matters.

I focused on a nice salad. No city cheese steak, not another round of home-mades this month. No disappointments.

Then I saw Grant’s Philly Cheese Steaks.

Like a mature boomer I weighed the virtues of delayed satisfaction and impulse. Was I strong enough to pull away, to keep walking? Not an easy test in that much gravity.

What if I went inside to check it out, ask a few question? You know, just talk.

The man I found called the right cheese. He called the right roll, the right peppers. He was an Eagles’ fan.

I walked out with a traditional cheese steak wrapped in foil, heavy white paper, and bagged. It looked perfect.

And no, I didn’t open the sack and start huffing. I waited until I got back to my car.

One whiff and I heard A Day In The Life, “Someone spoke and I went into a dream.”

I saw young Ron Jaworski taking snaps under center. Larry Bowa and Mike Schmidt playing catch at the Vet. Dr. J floating around The Spectrum where the Broad Street Bullies pounded the NHL.

To be fair I needed to sample it fresh before taking it home to review under more scientific conditions. One bite. Unwrapped it for a nibble.

It isn’t sold by the foot or half foot. It’s either full sized or half. After a nibble or eight I had a half left. Cut in half again made it look whole.

How was it? At that moment I could’ve zipped up a Mummer suit, grabbed a banjo, and high stepped all the way home.

Jaws threw that touchdown. Schmidt hit it out. Chocolate Thunder tore the rim down and Bobby Clarke slapped pucks into the net until the light burned out.

Was it good?

The amoroso buns, steak, provolone, and peppers were as balanced as Eugene Ormandy’s holiday concerts.

How good was it?

I smuggled it home past the usual hoard and broke it out later. Called it dessert. My wife agreed.

That good.