At Duck Fat in Portland, Maine I see my son in these hipsters. As I type he is prying away at the grip of my fingers, soon to fly this coop for hipper environs. When he gets there, wherever there is, away from here, from me, I hope he eats this well.
We noodled out a roadtrip to Portland, interviewed our brains on where to eat, looking for a spot between red onion and cruise liner. Duck Fat girl said we’d have to wait till the middle of next week and we did. My time flew, lubed as it was with juice.
Focus your audio, folks, poutine is everything plus. It’s badass when it’s bad – with the cheap stuff, squeaker curds and jello gravy – and badasser when it’s good, dressed up posh. Local babes dressed to kill ya with fat and more fat. Sustainable, baby.
This shack throws babies out the balcony when it comes to panini. Decked to check, people.
Dinner that day? Yo, dude, do I look cronked? Three oysters, a gallon of water and an espresso. Ready, steady, go!