A Ledgered Snack: Staccato Gelato
Portland’s Sweet Pocket on SE 28th
SE 28th is a buffet of bars and restaurants — a two-pod food cart corridor with every global craving covered. But when it comes to dessert, your options shrink fast. With Fifty Licks sadly torched out of its Burnside anchor spot, and Cheese & Crack leaning heavily on rainbow soft-serve aesthetics, Staccato Gelato quietly holds the throne for traditional scoops and colorful character.
Tucked into a modest storefront, Staccato opens up like a crayon box. Inside, oversized paper lanterns float like balloons above playful murals and red retro chairs — one with a lovingly duct-taped cushion that somehow adds to the charm. It’s the kind of place that feels equally welcoming to toddlers, dates, and board game geeks. (Yes, there’s a well-loved shelf of them near the window.)
The menu is a triple threat: gelato, coffee, and weekend donuts. We kept it classic — a scoop of their tangy blueberry in a cup and a root beer float gelato on a cone. $3 each. That’s not a typo — just a blessed anomaly in a world where a single scoop can run you a full Lincoln. The flavors hit a sweet spot: flavorful without being cloying, nostalgic without being bland.
We took our treats to a table near the west-facing window. Evening sun spilled through the storefront glass as we soaked in the slow magic of almost-summer — dessert in hand, mural at our backs, and the soft buzz of local chatter in the air. It’s the kind of spot that doesn’t try too hard because it doesn’t need to. Staccato Gelato just is — and that’s more than enough.
Confessions of a Café Chair
by The Red One by the Window
They call it “patina” when a guitar gets beat-up. When I get scuffed and split? Duct tape. Real dignified. But hey — I’ve propped up more pompous asses than all the girlfriends of so-called artists in this zip code, and I’m still standing. Can’t say the same for their Etsy shops.
You know who I miss? The old man who used to read Kerouac aloud to his dog. Never bought a thing. Just sat here every Wednesday with a thermos and a poem. That mutt understood more than half the poets who pass through.
Couples? I’ve felt more tension in one of my seams than most of their Tinder dates. If you ever heard the creak I let out during a breakup, that was no accident. I choose when to creak.
But the kids. The kids get me. They climb up sticky-fingered with gelato dreams, not knowing they’re safe in the arms of someone who’s seen it all. Root beer float drips down their shirts, and I just smile. No judgment. Just cushion.
So sit. Spill something. Laugh too loud. Argue about punk rock or polyamory. I’ve got you. I always have.