PORTLAND OF THE SOUTH PT. 2: KNOW WHERE YOU ARE

‘Murica. Image via DG Studios

An ongoing series about Asheville, NC, Portland of the South pt. 2.

In Portland, Oregon, going under the Morrison Bridge at midnight for southern food seems like a good idea every time.

Yes, it’s dark, there are homeless tents scattered around, but Montage is still Portland. Park and go on in.

If it was any other city I wouldn’t think twice about driving by, let alone stop.

Which brings us to Asheville, Portland of the South pt 2.

After a huge day hiking it out and back, wife and I planned on seeing a blue grass open mic.

The idea was to go back to our motel, get cleaned up, and head out. Since it was getting later in the afternoon/early evening, my idea was going straight there.

The show started at seven thirty, it was eight. It was blue grass, we’re funky, perfect match.

So we got the map and headed toward the River Arts District. And got lost.

Down by the river the street lights were few and far between when we passed a trio of low one story buildings with full parking lots.

“Let’s stop here,” she said.

“Let’s keep looking for the open mic,” I said.

What I meant was there’s no way in hell I’m stopping, but I did.

Every parking spot in the lot had a sign that said you’d be towed unless you signed your car in at the door of the first place. If you went to one of the other three, too bad. No car.

With visions of Buford Pusser in a tow truck, I broke it down like this:

“The news is full of out of town people, no matter the town or how far out, getting sideways with the locals. Someone takes a stand and someone pays for the stand. Taking a stand in Asheville might be good and fine, but I don’t want to find out on a dark road.

“My take on Southern hospitality is when the little lady runs her mouth, the husband gets his smashed.”

After that kernel of interpretive wisdom my wife asked what planet I thought I was on. We’re all just people, she said.

And that’s why I love her, but not enough to get dragged through a parking lot. Backwards.

“Let’s head back toward our motel. I saw Red Lobster, Olive Garden, you know, suburb food.”

No. Way.

We headed back to downtown Asheville to continue  searching Portland of the South pt. 2.

At night the streets get smaller, people walk out, cars fly by.

I found a parking place near a bar with an open mic. Perfect, except it was an open mic for screaming.

To avoid the Dud Of The Night title I said let’s go in. We didn’t.

We passed a restaurant cooking Mexican and California food. Too exotic.

I saw a man and woman sitting with a take out food container and asked where the good food was.

The guy gave a look like he either didn’t understand English or wasn’t used to strangers asking about food. But he warmed up and gave us solid take.

We ended up in the most Portland of the South pt.2 place possible.

Everything locally sourced. Free roaming, organic, grass fed, the works. And they made their beer downstairs.

Big success, until the beer showed up.

Asheville is a beer town by local standards. The South Slope sounds like the place to be.

The beer I drank had some odd tones, something between Pepto Bismol and Colgate toothpaste, but it could have been Crest.

Remember those little red chew pills we used to get to show tooth health as kids? Like that.

While no one wants to hear their beer would make a good mouthwash, it was a better bet than getting towed or dragged around a parking lot in the dark.

Those three places past the River Arts District? They might have the best barbecue in the world, but the quality probably didn’t suffer if you showed up at six. In the daylight.

About that blue grass open mic? The place was called ISIS. I’m not ready to ask, “Where’s ISIS? We’re looking to join up.”

When we got back to the car the open mic screamer was going strong.

“We could still go in. Let’s do it for Portland of the South pt. 2.”