Handsome Pizza, Hypercritical Food Review of Terror and Heckling (Portland, OR)

The first time I drove through Portland, I'd been driving for 40 million hours or so alongside a nutcase who would listen to nothing but freestyle. It was over ten years ago, but I will never forget how we hit the outer limits right around rush hour, stopping our steady pace to a grinding, brake tapping, near-halt. By the time we reached that stunning view of Portland proper, the river, and its impressive bridges, we were both in a seriously foul mood.

I decided Portland sucked and could go sink in the ocean for all I cared.

But that was then, and after a refreshing visit to Crater Lake, I was ready to embrace Portland anew. The four hour drive had set my stomach arumbling--it was time to eat. I'd originally planned to stay two nights in Portland, visiting various libraries and really getting a sense of the place this time around, but my illness cut my time down to one single evening. I could only be devoted to one objective: Handsome Pizza.

I've been wanting to try this place since my first employee, Will, long since moved on to greener pastures from the gritty city, opened it up in Portland years ago. I believe the original name was Depokos, and the place has moved since to the NE Killingsworth location, co-run with Seastar Bakery. I knew Handsome Pizza had been getting consistently good reviews and I was looking forward to finally getting to try one of Will's recipes.

I knew the pizza would be good--Will's discerning taste for only the best pizza has been legendary since I've known him. I know he worked hard at perfecting his pies and I was excited to get the chance to finally see him in his element.

Alas, best laid plans and all that...it turned out that Will would be out of town at a wedding during my pass through Portland, so I would have to try Handsome Pizza solo. I found a parking space near the front entrance and made my way inside.

It's a great space with fabulous lighting, a phantasmagorical dragon, and a freaky hybrid varmint hanging over one of the doors. The massive pizza oven dominates the kitchen area and I could see the flames flickering all the way outside. I would bet kids love eating at Handsome Pizza, though it is not specifically kid-centric, it is wholeheartedly a fantastical place full of whimsy and fun, something far beyond your usual checked table cloths and dirty lanterns.

I ordered the Di Fara and watched as they put it together. The staff has an easy, convivial relationship, where everyone seems content to be there and the action never stops. They presented my pizza in short time, and I was dazzled by its charry bubbles, melty cheese, and fresh basil sinking slowly into the mozz and sauce.

It was, in a word, sublime. Not too salty, not too sweet. Not greasy at all. Every bite was heaven. The sauce in particular was something to savor, so fresh it was as though they'd made it not ten minutes before.

I knew I couldn't take it with me, so I chucked the rinds and ate only the gooey parts, even through I'm usually a crust eater, you have to make sacrifices somewhere. It was decadent enough as it was.

Obligatory upskirt!

One of my favorite Dad Jokes with Will has always been to harass and cajole him about the virtues of the Pizza Hut, and how it is just as good if not better than New York's very best pizza pies. We all know this is rubbish (perhaps skirting into sacrilege) but I always got a kick at how genuinely annoyed he was at the very suggestion. I don't know, maybe it was sacrilege, like saying Bloody Mary in the mirror three times or taunting a Ouija board. Maybe my Dad Jokes earned me the bad pizzas I've had in my life, especially that last Papa John's fiasco, which was less a pizza and more a raw sewage pie. It was my Pizza Karma, making fun. So I confess, and I atone.

And I've gotta say it: Handsome Pizza is up there with those New York Big Boys. You did good, Will. I am so proud.

Manzanita Rest Area to Crater Lake National Park (100ish miles)

I was feeling a bit better the next morning when I awoke at the Manzanita Rest Stop, even though it was cold pushing toward frigid. The great equalizer was the purchase I made between leg one and leg two of this very long trip: the cold weather sleeping bag.

Let me tell you something folks: Everyone should have one of these. You should use them in your home. Forget sheets and blankets and shit. Cold weather sleeping bags are the BOMBity BOMB BOMB. Not only are they super warm, they are silky soft. It is a damn pleasure to remove one's socks and get nice and toasty and slide-y all up in thar. And for road trips like this? It makes all the difference in the world.

I craved a Real Breakfast (on the sugary side) so kept my eye out for eateries along the way, knowing it would be about a two hour drive from the rest stop to Crater Lake. What I was not prepared for was the Miracle on OR-62, the highway on the way up to Crater Lake. I was still bummed about missing out on the sequoias and redwoods I'd planned to visit in California, entirely forgetting that they are not kept within the confines of the damn forests named after them (idjit). At a certain point on 62, I entered a densely forested area, a tunnel of towering trees, evergreens and the like, but also my beloved redwoods. They were here! They were here! And it was so beautiful, I can't express it. I just can't. If I'd had the capacity to feel at the time, I would have cried. Unfortunately, I was still a bit thick headed from the cold, so settled for simple joy.

When I reached Prospect, Oregon, I saw a nice place to stop called Beckie's Cafe. The whole interior is wood paneled, and it truly does look like a little cabin, complete with warbly, antique windows. The views outside them were stunning, though it was a little too cold in the restaurant to get all that comfortable and settled.

I ordered french toast and got what I believe was their specialty instead, a sort of cinnamon bun french toast, which tasted fine, though truth be told the real maple syrup just never does it for me. I am a troglodyte, I know, but bring me pancake syrup before maple syrup every time. MMMM corn syrupppp.

The servers were very similar to those Brooklyn diner battle axes, so they made little impression on me, though I could see by the Google reviews that plenty of travelers felt otherwise. It's hard to imagine what there is to be grumpy about in such a beautiful setting, but I guess life is life everywhere, and anyplace can become common and grating given time. I have no genuine complaints about the wait staff--they were fast and to the point if a little chilly and brusque--but fair warning to folks who are accustomed to sunnier service.

I carried on toward Crater Lake, knowing there would be more elevations to deal with and hoping my remnant stuffiness would not complicate the endeavor. I really wanted to have a spirtual moment at Crater Lake--the pictures promised an insanely beautiful spectacle. But you know how it is with spiritual moments. They have to happen to you. You can't stand at the edge of the Grand Canyon and force yourself to feel the Jesus.

Looking from Left to Right, standing on the Southwestern Edge of Crater Lake

Crater Lake is incredible--and highly, highly recommended for anyone who has the means to get there. You have to go--if not for the geological and volcanic significance, then just for the stunning vistas across a lake so pure and blue you really could cry just looking at it. Even if you were in a Vader sort of way, with all your soft parts burnt off, you really could feel something standing at the edge of it and realizing the titanic destruction it took to make this perfect place. Coming off of a cold didn't help me much, but I found that there were other things to goggle at that made me yawp for joy anyway.

Ancient crags.

The primary reason why Crater Lake was more of a quick jaunt than and all day haunt was quite simple: It was COLD. C-c-c-c-c-c-c-cold. Even with all my coats, I was sprinting out of the car to take pictures, then sprinting back in to get warm.

As I drove up the northwestern road encircling the lake, every patch in shadow was covered in snow and ice. Try to imagine precarious roads winding upward and little to no guardrail to keep you from sliding into infinity or at least banks of very spiky trees. As I made my way up, things got a bit tense. I was feeling ready to move on maybe. I was a bit Over It. And then I passed some frosted trees and had to double back.

In His Full Glory

A Frost Monster. Clear as day. It was Beautiful. Magnificent. Perfect!!!! I took so many pictures of the Frost Monster and surrounding trees--the ones posted here are just a fraction of the total I ended up with. It was exquisite and weird and somehow joyful. Maybe it was the fact that I saw the form in the ice, maybe it was just odd enough to set my world slightly atilt, and a little perspective shift was all I needed to get back into the game. I was excited to be there, excited about the lake, and overexcited about the beings lurking in the frost, if only I could get the right shot to coax them out into the open for any eye to see...and recognize.

A close up of his wing and clawed feeties.

I spent just as much time in that single spot of the park as I did through all the rest of it. Don't get me wrong, Crater Lake was fantastic, but it was that spark of imagination, seeing something more within an ordinary thing, that woke me up and made me feel almost 100% human again.

I left Crater Lake in a warm little bubble of glee. I couldn't wait to get my hands on those photos and see what came out. I'm still not sure I did the scene justice (great, good, bad? I don't care!) but it was the fun of the moment I'm going to remember long after.

Ashland Branch Library, Ashland, Oregon (BONUS: Plague in Galt, the summary)

I had all sorts of plans for California. I was going to see my friend Amanda and visit the main library in San Francisco. I was going to drive up the coast and see the Pacific. I was going to see General Sherman, the massive sequoia, and drive through Yosemite National Park, seeing the sights and soaking up the nature. I was going to drive through the Redwood National and State Parks and spend quality time around my very favorite flora on this green and bountiful earth.

Instead I got the plague and had to take a five day side trip to Galt, California. More on that in the Epilogue.

Once mostly mended, I paid my bill (broken trumpet sounds) and headed north toward Sacramento and the Oregon border. My eventual stopping point for the night was Manzanita Rest Area, just north of Grants Pass, Oregon, about six hours from my starting point. Before Manzanita, however, was one destination I could not pass by, even if I was feeling a bit knocked out by all that driving: the Ashland Branch Library in Ashland, Oregon.

Don't think I didn't notice my illness was also bookended by Dragons.

First, let me tell you about this town. It is exactly where you want to live. It is in a mountainous region surrounded by thick, green trees, some turning to fall colors, blasting yellow, red, and glorious in the sun. The town itself is as Cute as a Goddamned Button, with main drags down the center where the walkways are plentiful and the rustic, charming shops and restaurants are overflowing with hearty, be-sweatered Americans with cash to burn, smiling and jolly and full of chowder. There are also plenty of kids with black and blue hair skateboarding all about, exuding not only teenaged ennui, but with manners to boot which is, let me tell you, beyond kitten adorable.

I saw a lot of Cape Cods and Victorians, with a scattering of minimalls away from the twee-est part of town, and one old-fashioned Wendy's like a festering pimple on an otherwise inscrutable but lovely face, pale with dark eyes, framed in a sheath of glowing brown curls. Oh Ashland, Ashland. I love you.

Ashland is the home of the Southern Oregon University. If the signs hadn't given it away, the clutches of college kids walking about nearby would have. I drove up and down the main roads several times, and at each pass saw groups going to and fro, which was a weird sight since there were always at least ten of them, sometimes upwards of twenty. Safety in numbers? Cult regulations? University rules? Who can say.

I just loved Ashland--even the theater in the minimall (CINEMA eeeee) made me perversely happy. I considered finally watching It there, but still felt too punkish to commit to it. Instead I visited the library, drove around, and finally booked it to Manzanita to sleep for eleven hours.

But the library, the library, oh man, what a dream. It felt fitting that two of the loveliest little libraries I've visited on this trip would bookend the horrorshow of the 5 sickly days in between. It is as though the Plague Gods said look here, you. We're going to punch you in the face for five days, but before and after you get to see some truly inspiring libraries so shut up and take your medicine.

The first floor of the library doesn't give away its most stunning architectural secret (you have to go up to the second floor to view that) but it has its own beguiling charms to compete for patrons' interests and attention. If the beautiful views out the windows aren't enough, Ashland also has art displays, some concepts familiar, one in particular completely new to me.

I loved the re-purposed books, pulled out of the recycling bin and turned into something more. It's an art project I've seen done before, but I was happy to see it in Ashland, too. Any bibliophile will tell you there is so much more to books than the words within. That's where the deep and unbending love begins, of course, but it spreads farther, out to the ends of the infinite tactile pull--the feel of the rough, cloth casing, the sticky binding, the satin bookmark, the tight, hard endpapers, the pressed fabric of the head and footbands, and of course the main stock paper, smooth, thick, and whispering against your fingers, telling you the stories and lives and kinescoping worlds whirling within. How can you not be enchanted by the rich smell of the leaves, the casing, the binding, the toxic and intoxicating black print therein. It's beyond magic. And by far one of our best inventions as a species. A totem. A saving grace.

I especially loved the butterfly book, etched out of wood (what else), and set free and flying above the stacks. Only a true bibliophile (and gifted artist) would come up with that. I called up the library to learn more and was informed that the piece, unnamed, was created by local artist Tom Hopkins and was donated by The Friends of the Library in memory of Virginia Fowler.

The second floor is breathtaking, with beautiful, exposed wood framing all along the ceiling that casts a rich glow across the entire area. Oh how I wanted to stay. Unfortunately, the library closed at five that day, and I'd only arrived at 4:30. Bad time management, I know, but blame the plague still jamming up my sinuses and skewing my perspective ever so slightly into the twilight zone.

Isn't it glorious? In addition to the wonderful art and architecture, I also had to capture the microfiche viewer sighting for posterity--isn't it fab? It looks brand new, but it can't be...can it? Maybe it is just very well preserved. I actually saw someone using a microfiche machine in the main Seattle library just a couple of days ago and my heart went a-pitter-patter because YAY, it's still useful, even today, in the futuristic future. Probably not forever, though.

I left just before the library closed, wistful but needing to blow my nose for the 400th time that day. I'd like to think I could find myself in Ashland again--it's worth the trip, and on the way to other more well-traveled places like Sacramento and Portland...never say never.

BONUS EPILOGUE: The Plague, Electric Boogaloo.

Best Western has become my Best Friend, it turns out, as I've had to rely on it (and my rewards membership) far more than I could have imagined as I was putting the plans together for this leg of my library tour.

When I was sitting in the parking lot of Incline Village's lovely library, all I wanted to do was curl into a sad ball and sleep. But I had to make a plan first, which let me tell you, sucks the big one. The biggest one. Being sick on the road means there are no home comforts. You can't just move from the couch full of blankets to the bed full of blankets, your pantry stocked with soups, your mom bringing you aspirins or maybe a hammer to end your suffering entirely. You're cold and alone and dripping and wheezing all by your lonesome. The suckage is intense.

I found the best prices in Galt, a town just south of Sacramento, and made my way there. I don't remember the rest of that drive or checking in, really. I don't remember much about the experience at all except for going through a box of Kleenex, taking Dayquil, taking supplements that were supposed to enhance my immune system, and watching an episode of Law & Order that lasted roughly 3 days. The Briscoe years, so it was awesome, but it was also one, long story where lots of people got murdered between commercials for life insurance.

I only went out once to the nearby and Very Sad™ pharmacy, a national chain I will not name because Boy Howdy was it freaking sad. I scored more Dayquil and too much chocolate because I was feeling sorry for myself and I can do whatever I want especially when I am sick so nyeh. I also picked up a Carl's Jr. burger which tasted vaguely of alleyway cardboard and onion farts.

How did I survive? Well, their name is Pizza Guys and they deliver. They had good salads and good enough pizza (better than Pizza Hut, better than Dominoes, and don't even talk to me about that hot garbage Papa John's pizza, which is criminally bad and should be illegal). I also ate the free breakfasts Best Western offers and, before you say HEY YOU HAD PLAGUE, two things:

* First, whatever, I was hungry and paid for it so suck it.
* Second, and more important, if you don't know me, then Hi, how are you, but also I am a germaphobe. It's true. I'll do just about anything not to have to touch things other people have touched. Panic attacks on the subway? Germs. Even if I touched nothing, the realization that I was breathing the same air as the other commuters was sometimes too much. Their lung germs were touching me, even going into my lungs. You know that whenever you smell something, that's because tiny particles of that something are traveling up your nostrils right? They're touching you. This includes poop. Let that marinate.

Shasta Lake-ish

Anyway, I had a process. I would get up, take my pills (because I can't eat for an hour after I take them--tummy traumas), put on pants (begrudgingly), tie up my hair extra tight, then would wash my hands as though I was about to perform an appendectomy on the Pope, okay? Scrub, scrub, scrub. I would then go out amongst the living and gather up my breakfast. I wasn't coughing much then, so would remain almost totally silent, gathering eggs and sausage, juice and coffee, and making my way back to my room, which was only two doors down from the breakfast area. No one was the wiser--and half the time, there was no one even there. The only person who knew for sure was Jessey, my Galt Best Western front desk attendant and floor manager, who offered me pizza one day and made sure to ask how I was doing whenever he saw me.

Mount Shasta

When I finally left the Galt Best Western five days later, I was still in a bit of a fog but 80% better at least. I got to see Lake Shasta, Mount Shasta, and the hopeful permanence of tree scarification along the way...a youthful endeavor I would think about differently a couple of days later, looking at the vast and still obvious blast zone of Mount St. Helens.