Wandering Wyoming's Towns, Wilds and the Roads in Between

It was our last day in Portland, and after a weekend of indulging on trendy cocktails and food-trucks, I yearned for a change. I craved quality vegan food in a distinctly Portland space.

Having delegated the decision-making to Urban Spoon, I turned to my husband and best friend, Mike and Michael, “Hey guys, guess where we’re going? Casa Diablo. It’s a vegan strip club!!” Agreement all around. 100% unanimous. You just can’t get any more Portland than that.

Strict liquor laws require establishments that serve alcohol to offer at least five hot food items. As a result, culinary greatness dominates in Portland’s restaurants, bars and . . . yep . . . strip clubs.

We skirted the city’s industrial area, hitching a hard right to ascend the drive and land in a shaded parking lot. At 11 o’clock a.m., we were Casa Diablo’s only customers. Shutters were closed and shades drawn, presumably to simulate night-time, but just enough light filtered in to illuminate the awkwardness.

In this lurid context we suddenly became a strange threesome, shuffling up to the bar, unsure where to settle our strategically averted eyes. The bartender bathed in that invasive light; cropped hair, pretty face, perfectly exposed breasts, big smile. “What can I get you?” She wasn’t uncomfortable at all.

My plans of abstinence abandoned, I ordered a gin and tonic and fell back, letting the boys manage the food. As we took our seats—Michael and I faced the stage, Mike sat facing me—a petit 50-something with waist-length strawberry-blonde hair took the stage. Eye-level, I realized she wore not one speck of clothing. Only shoes: spiky black heels. I chugged my gin and tonic, staring at the ice until she finished her routine. Mike and Michael handled the food.

Then it happened. The expectation of tips. Still the only customers, there was no diverting obligation. We were it. And a long, surprisingly lithe leg lifted skyward, settling between my husband’s back and his chair. As our entertainer slipped in behind him, she held out her hand, “So, did you like the show?”

From across the table, to my right, Michael’s voice piped up. “We. . . we just came for the vegan food!”

I may never return to Casa Diablo. After all that, the food left much to be desired. But I’ll consider it, probably later in the day, and preferably after dark. Sometimes travel’s gems lie in the great stories, the perfectly imperfect experiences. And I just don’t know if you can get any more Portland than that.