The Dining Report –
Equinox – A Tiny Group In A Sea Of Noise

As someone who lives a relatively far piece North, often when I want to travel across town to far NE/North Portland, I take Fremont. Fremont as a general rule is a pretty nice street, it goes nonstop all the way from NE 92nd to just below the Fremont Bridge (imagine that), and although traffic bogs down at a few intersections, that wacky nightmarish junction in Rose City Park where it crosses Sandy at 72nd, and no one knows which way to go or who has the right of way, across 33rd where masses turn to go to gentrified hot spots like Alberta and Killingsworth, and at MLK where the short signal bogs everything down. But I like traveling Fremont, it really does go through many of the nicest neighborhoods on the Eastside, Rose City Park, Beaumont-Wilshire, Alameda, then stately Irvington. What long-running street can beat that for prestige from end to end? Even after it crosses MLK it goes some interesting places, through historic Boise-Elliot and right across hip and happening Mississippi, where every young artist and musician now wants to live if they aren’t already living around Alberta.

I only mention all of this because of the peculiar drive home I had last Friday after the RR dinner at Equinox, almost every car in front of me was either a complete hazardous menace or a spectacle in its own right. And all on Fremont. As I left the restaurant and headed south along Mississippi I immediately was trapped behind the last vehicle anyone ever wants to travel behind. The particular version of total road nightmare was an early 70s Toyota truck, already barely roadworthy, sitting about four inches off the ground because it was totally loaded with a massive pile of every article under the sun, and traveling about 15 mph. I didn’t see where it pulled out of, but my guess would be it was some local junk hauler who maneuvered away from the Rebuilding Center, taking every single item deemed unsaleable, and now stacked about eight feet high in this rickety old truck and barely confined or corralled in any way. I chanted to myself, please don’t turn on Fremont, please don’t turn on Fremont. Naturally, it turned on Fremont. There’s nothing like creeping along at 12 miles an hour behind a teetering behemoth of trash, faster moving traffic backing up at the tail end of your vehicle, while you worry what heavy object will soon coming flying off the pile, through your windshield, that in turn unenabling you from ever writing crowd pleasing and enchanting reviews like this ever again.
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