Missing Our Restaurants

I miss making deliveries. The comparative quiet of downtown Portland in late morning. Not too early before the openers have arrived to unlock the kitchen, yet not too late when the press of lunch customers changes the pace from busy to slammed.

I like double parking with immunity — hitting the emergency blinker button and swinging out the door with confidence like I belong there. Because I do.

I love the synchrony and purposefulness of the staff as they get ready for the crush to come. Hands are busy, bodies are moving, and not much talking other than to communicate their intent as they pass close aboard at pinch points and navigate blind corners in tight quarters. “Oyster Guy” I announce as I rotate 90 degrees and slip past them with both my hands full of 100 count oyster bags. Pleasantries are exchanged, but nobody pauses in their tasks.

You know you’re part of the system when they give you the keys to the cold room. Not literally — they don’t lock the cooler. I mean that rather than taking the bags from you up front, they expect you to just carry them through the kitchen and deposit them in the cold room yourself, like you belong there. Because I do.

I don’t think of myself as particularly needy, but I do love it when a waitress, grabbing a smoke outside the back recognizes the logo on my hoodie or hat (I dress for deliveries), gives me a thumbs up and says that Eros are her favorite oysters. And I always believe her.