Portland Is a ‘War Zone’? OK, Sure. So How’s the Food?

“The Radical Left’s reign of terror in Portland ends now,” reads a White House announcement from Sept. 30, in which the Trump administration declared it would deploy federal forces to quell what it called the “Antifa-led hellfire” swallowing up the city.

“The amazing thing is, you look at Portland and you see fires all over the place,” Trump told reporters at the White House on Wednesday. “You see fights, and I mean just violence. It's just so crazy.”

Is Portland’s present the Bay Area’s future? In a recent interview, Salesforce CEO Marc Benioff implored Trump to send the National Guard into San Francisco. (He’s just not that into you, Marc! You’re looking desperate!) 

But is Portland burning? And is it still possible to get a decent breakfast there while Antifa supersoldiers are rampaging through the streets? Last week, COYOTE sent its top food reporter to the People’s Republic of Portlandia to find out. (That’s me.)

Upon landing at PDX, I knew that I needed to fortify myself for the trying days ahead. I ventured out to Rose VL, a classic Vietnamese soup restaurant in Southeast Portland. Was it on fire? No. But the brothy chicken curry, the Thursday special, did set my mouth aflame. It was served in a huge bowl — the kind from which you’d dole out handfuls of Halloween candy in the before times — with a pale, Vietnamese-style baguette that wilted into a soft, cottony mass when I dipped hunks of it into the collagen-thickened liquid.

You can also find the sustenance you need to effectively dodge volleys of tank fire at a still-standing Portland classic, Pine State Biscuits: Try the Regina ($10), a biscuit holding a fried egg and collard greens braised into sweet, tender submission. When I visited, the two televisions in the dining room were pointedly not tuned to the news: just the populace-calming tonics of The Joy of Painting and Naruto.

Even now, Portland remains a brunch town, with residents venturing out to line up for their morning bread rations. All they can get out here are tiramisu croissants, the poor, wretched bastards. A newer spot is Mémoire Cà Phê, a tiny Viet American restaurant on Alberta Street. Last year, the owners of three different businesses (Portland Cà Phê, matta., and HeyDay) came together to open this place, forming an alliance around a shared love for their parents’ cuisine.

Fish sauce graces many of the dishes, either as the saline underbelly of the gravy or as part of the seasoning for the in-house bacon. You can get the bacon on the superb pandan waffle ($17), whose crisp, almost seared exterior encases a fragrant, neon green core. This combination of classic American diner food with a Vietnamese sensibility is a testament to what you get when socialists are in charge of a city: brunch, but woke.

Portland’s most dangerous antifascist elements — the inflatable frogs, twerking unicorns, and peacocks — emerge when the sun sets, so grab a concentrated Vietnamese coffee so you can keep your wits about you. (Personally, caffeine vastly improves my hand-to-hand combat skills, but your mileage may vary.) To that end, there is still great coffee to be had in this city (for now), notably at Albina Press and the vegan Exquisite Creatures. 

In the months since the administration empowered ICE to become, essentially, an extrajudicial militia allowed to disappear people from our streets, activists around the country have led regular protests at ICE holding facilities. In response, Trump has declared war on America’s cities, including Portland. In response to that, Portland has escalated: The inflatable frogs have multiplied.

In times like these, a person craves reminders of home, of the basic humanity that can, and must, endure so that we don’t lose hope for the future. I found that at “first generation restaurant” Xiao Ye, where I was surrounded by couples huddled together at their tables, taking a rare moment of solace from the raging liberalism and improv comedy acts outside. The fare at Xiao Ye is not only phenomenal but deeply nostalgic, warming the heart like the memory of a long-ago bonfire. 

The famous mochiko-and-masa madeleines ($9.50) are tiny: the size of a newborn’s foot, and just as soft and squeezable. They’d be no less exciting even without the leftist siege putting so much pressure on Portland’s grain reserves. 

Chelo is another inspiring example of cooks making do with a limited supply chain. At this Mexican pop-up-turned-restaurant, oysters ($18/$32) are served raw and straight out of the ocean, and diners are encouraged to mete out just a little bit of sauce (ponzu, a muscular sangrita, and serrano) via eyedropper onto each briny thumbprint of flesh. 

Here, the antojitos aren’t overflowing with meat, but they hardly feel scarce. Roasted cauliflower hunks and wisps of duck confit give just the right amount of richness and chewiness to delicate memelitas ($18). Actually, the best of the menu were the gorditas de hongos ($16) — a gently beating heart of sauteed mushrooms, corn, and greens enclosed in pockets of grainy, heirloom masa. 

After dinner at Chelo, I walked out into a silent, drizzly, petrichor-scented night. Reflecting on the days I’d spent in the city up until that point, I wondered if I’d been bamboozled by rhetoric overblowing a few protests happening downtown. 

Could the federal government, those 100% genuine human Twitter users, and corporate media all be conspiring to push a lie about this place?

Surely not. But to really get to the bottom of all these questions, I’ve resolved to try some more croissants.