The Hilt on Alberta

Some restaurants in Portland have 'approximate hours.' The approximations are posted on the door or in the window. When you come to such a restaurant it may or may not be open, no matter how hungry or thirsty you are. By the time it does open, the golden age of rock and roll has morphed into one big cliche. Three people are sitting at the bar. It's 2 p.m. The weather outside is pretty dark, the kind of weather Elliott Smith would write a song about if he was still living, but he's not. The bartender's friendly enough, though you wouldn't want your wife to marry him. Should there be music it should be jazz of the classic modern era, Bud Powell or Thelonious Monk. On second thought, there shouldn't be music at all, music would spoil the mood. The bartender's also the waiter. In the light he looks like a young Bela Lugosi who has an MFA in poetry and keeps a notebook handy to record all the witty things he hears himself say. He says you can sit anywhere you like, and he means it. Two beers please, you hear yourself saying, and a moment or two to look at the menu. No problem, man, he says. When the grilled chicken & mushroom sandwich arrives it's speared in its stomach by a steak knife. The knife handle sticks straight up into the air so that it looks like the chef practiced some kind of bizarre kitchen hari-kari on it. The Greek salad is the best you've ever tasted, and you've been to Greece. Tell the waiter that and he'll say, yeah, we have solid Greek connections.