A Ledgered Meal: Devil's Dill, NE Portland
Portland’s late night staple Devil’s Dill has opened a new outpost on Killingsworth, and we finally got around to giving their sandwiches a try for an early lunch to-go. Eating on an empty stomach is one thing; contemplating a nosh with a head clogged with the day’s newsfeed is another.
We arrived just after a squad of firefighters. Four men ordering lunch with the deliberation of a NATO summit. Or a conclave of EU diplomats debating guns over butter; less soup for you. Time slowed. Policies and budgets hung in the balance. Or perhaps it was just my stomach. We waited. Because when first responders need sandwiches, you pull over and wait.
Nancy ordered grilled asparagus on ciabatta: a bold platform heavy on green infrastructure and eschewing meat. I ordered the half-size red wine–braised beef with German potato salad: a nonpartisan compromise, making appeals to bougie palates and lumpen proles. Would these choices pass partisan muster, or not cut the mustard?
On the way over, we were singing Cat Stevens’ The Wind but swapped in “Devil’s Dill.” What do people remember of Cat Stevens and Yusuf Islam, the uproar over Salman Rushdie back when he had two good eyes? Too soon, you rightly say. Satire becomes stick when you remember. Things. Spicy history as a condiment. Just like Tabasco. I put it on everything, especially sandwiches.
We've never been to Devil's Dill
We never never never never
Now we are going to eat our fill
We never never never
Once the firemen were on their way and our order was ready, the great bifurcation occurred: Nancy took her asparagus sandwich to a picnic, where it facilitated communal joy and solidarity. My beef sandwich went home with me, where it witnessed constrained isolationism and our dog’s moral outrage.
Delia stared with the righteous fury of a voter disenfranchised by the cruel mechanics of a two-party system. Not one shred of braised beef crossed the aisle into her waiting jaws. Nor a smear of potato salad. Dog unfriendly ingredients. Unfair, Delia telegraphed. Sad.
And so the sandwiches disappeared, not just into stomachs but into narrative. Nancy’s became a shared experience, mine became private awkwardness, and the firefighters’ well-earned lunch probably became myth.
Remember this the next time you hear someone say food isn’t political. They are wrong. Politics flavor everything on and between slices of bread. Every sandwich is a referendum. Some just lose faster than others.
Go get your dog some Devil's Dill
No never never never never
Postscript: From the Dog Who Was Denied
You think this is a story about politics. It isn’t. It’s about betrayal.
I watched you unwrap that red wine–braised beef, its scent announcing itself like a campaign promise. You saw my eyes — not just big, but democratic, wide with expectation. And then you turned away. Not one shred crossed the aisle. Not one morsel made it to the floor.
You talk about firefighters, NATO summits, Cat Stevens. Irrelevant. I was the electorate you ignored. The loyal base you left unsatisfied. While Nancy’s asparagus sandwich went to a picnic, fulfilling its destiny as communal food, mine — ours — was squandered on private consumption.
And don’t you dare lecture me about “dog-unfriendly ingredients.” Potato salad may be German, but I am cosmopolitan. I would have managed.
So here’s my referendum: next time, share. Or face the consequences of low approval ratings, relentless pawing, and the spontaneous singing of the songs of my people at 3 A.M.
Every sandwich is political. But to me, every sandwich is personal.
—Delia, Disenfranchised Voter, Patient Dog, Still Waiting