Bintliff's American Cafe - Portland, ME

There she is: the dame. You know the sort, twenty dollars of body stuffed into a ten cent getup. Not that the getup is cheap, this dame's probably got my whole year's rent on her person. And what a person.

We’re at Bintliff’s, an old Portland haunt. I’m at the bar and she’s at the window. Alone. I’d been given succinct instructions to document her near-future activities with a Paypal account to make it worth my while. 

Wonder when her beau gets here? Or maybe he already arrived?

Bintliff’s is full of old wood and smiles. They’ve got knickknacks and yellowed menus on the wall boasting 10 cent burgers. Now that’s a time I wish still existed. I’ve got money problems out the ying, which is why I’m bird-watching – you can’t pay the bill collectors with kind words. So, I took the job. What red-blooded man could say no to that many commas?

Gigantic Lamp Picture

She’s looking out the window. The fog outside gives me a view of her reflection. In it a set of eyes, black as coal, slope down at the sides like Egyptian royalty. The kind of eyes you don’t forget.

Laughs carom off the walls and the air is humid and pleasant against the frost outside. But you can see this dame’s got a frost inside. Something’s dark and lost behind those baby blacks. 

Can’t say this gig is hunky donky, though. Got my hackles up last night when the e-mail appeared. Unknown e-mail address: The message was succinct. 


Attached: (A picture of the broad I’m spying)

Message:  “BINTLIFF’S SATURDAY 8:00 AM” And a link to a paypal account in my name. One click to “Accept Amount.”

You think I hesitated in clicking? You think a gig this simple paying this much would give me pause? Hell no. When you’ve been in this game as long as I have, you learn to take what people pay you. 

This Bintliff’s place is a peach. Good coffee. People waiting out the door. Though, I never understood the whole “waiting for brunch” thing. Sounds a whole lot like the bullshit, “good things come to those who wait” mentality. I find the angles. I was never one to jog the full race. I’m the guy who ducks into the first alley and hails a cab to the finish.

The dame got a Florentine benedict; I can see the flakes of Parmesan from here. Apparently she’s got a figure that doesn’t need watching. But damn is it nice to look at.

Florenteen? Florentine? Either way, mighty fine.

The hash browns, garden-variety potatoes, reds and Yukon golds, mixed with sweet potato. All browned up on the griddle with a savory char. I haven’t had a meal this nice in I don’t know how long. Funny how good a little potato can be when you just…

Oops, almost forgot about the dame. These browns had me spinning my rusty hamster wheel. Bad news. I need to be sharper.

She’s on her phone now, talking quiet. She’s hunched over while she talks, those blonde tresses draping around her face like a veil. It’s not a good call, whatever it is, because soon enough she’s got her hand in the air for a check. 

Huh, no ring. I guess a suspicious husband is out of the question. Her nails ain’t even chipped, means she probably got them done yesterday. This femme is on the hunt for a man. 

Who wants me to watch her? A protective father? No, this has jilted ex-husband written all over it. The way she’s still sitting at a two-person table, rather than the bar. It’s habits that paint the most vivid picture.

This is too easy.

I signal for my check and leave a healthy tip. I’m feeling good about this one. 

Her BMW is pristine as well, black that’s been polished to a silky shine, except for a couple mud flecks from the morning drive. My Corolla? I say its color is “Maine Winter Camouflage.” All black and brown with salt spray up the sides. 

Keeping a car clean during a Maine winter is harder than building a house of cards in a shitsquall.  This broad is some kinda careful.

Soon enough we’re both driving north. She’s weaving a bit on the road, probably talking on the phone again. Dames. Can’t keep them off those things. Sure, maybe I even get a bit sloppy too, tailing her too close. But if she notices she doesn’t let on. 

It’s not long before she’s exiting at Freeport. Maybe to do a little L.L. Bean shopping? Though she doesn’t look like the type to go for Bean Boots. As plebian as I seem, I still got an eye for expensive taste. Just so happens that the expensive things don’t often come my way. Don’t ever, if I’m being honest. 

Lawtta benedicts, guy.

That simple fact cost me a wife. Well, maybe the drinking and cussing didn’t help. She wasn’t too excited about ramen noodles at the end of the month, either. It’s for the best. What I lost in her I gained in a little extra income. Though it takes a couple more beers to supplement an empty bed.

She always thought she could do the private eye thing with me. Thought she had a knack for it. But I can tell you, she never would have lasted. I mean, I’ll allow that a woman may have a keener juju-sense – you know, feeling things in their guts and getting all spiritual on you – but I never had the North Star point me to a fat wad of scratch. 

Though I won’t say business hasn’t slowed down since she left. Odd the way good and bad times tend to attract each other. Like good and bad have some sort of subtle gravity.

Luckily it looks like the good is starting to hove back my way. Where is this dame taking me?

These roads have more cracks than a plumber convention. Signs point us to “The Desert of Maine.” Funny she’d be going here. Probably a clever place to meet her secret man. Looking for love in Maine? Forget the snow. Go where the heat is: the desert!

God, I love how symbolic dames can be. 

I’m tailing her so that I just catch taillights when I hit the top of the crest. She’s a cautious driver when she’s paying attention.

The last crest and there's the entrance to the desert. A cul de sac of a parking lot. And look at that – another car just happens to be parked already. Don’t know who could have predicted that. I was even thinking of calling my buddy Mick for backup. He’s a two-ton gorilla of a judo instructor. Normally backs me up on iffy jobs. 


Now up close, looks like that's Mick's car. Haven’t talked to him in a while, actually. Maybe this dame is his? Mick you old so-and-so, getting mixed up in other people’s lives. And sure enough, I turn in a driveway just short of the desert proper, and Mick’s already getting out of his car. 

Through the trees I can see him lean in the window of the dame’s car. Mick, I didn’t know you had it in you. She’s a looker for sure. 

Is he pointing at my car? Can’t be sure, but it seems like something’s off. Now he’s walking toward me, waving. What the heck is this about?

I put the car in reverse. I don’t want to get caught here, lest that paypal account suddenly dry up. If that’s even possible. Can't take that chance.

But Mick, the lug, he blocks me in. Catches me trying to reverse and plants his moose trunk behind me. Awww now the dame is walking up too. Mid-winter fog puffing out of her mouth.

And as she walks she pulls up her long blonde curls, lifts them right off her head. She’s got the same spiky hair as Sheila underneath. Looks just like Sheila, come to think of it.

Jesus. It’s Sheila. It’s my ex-wife.

“Bobby,” she says, winking at me. She puts her arm over Mick’s shoulder.

“What the hell is this about?” I say. I have no idea what she’s playing at. Her eyes were never black. I tell her so. 

“They’re contacts you idiot,” she says. She’s got her lips done up in a different color too. How did I miss it?

 “You did the job, Bob.” Says Mick. 

“The hell I did,” I said. “Who wants me following my ex-wife?” 

“I did,” says Sheila. “Notice how all your old leads went dry? Notice how your services have been… less demanded.” 

“Maybe I do,” I say. “I’m doing fine.”

Mick and Sheila look at my dirt-mobile and smirk at each other. So what if I haven’t had work in a while. What’s it to them?

“You still don’t see it, do you Bobby?” says Sheila. “You never had the eye for it. You always wanted to take the quick route. The easy buck.”

“Sorry Bob,” says Mick. “Life don’t work that way. Sometimes you gotta wait in the line to get the prize. And Sheila here, you kept her waiting. And she waited good. Now she’s the best P.I. in this town. By far.”

I look at Sheila. No way that muddleheaded broad could rock a case all the way to bed. I’ve got the head for this business. I was born for it. But then again, I couldn’t recognize my own ex-wife? 

“You’re dried up, Bobby,” says Sheila. I look out at the Desert of Maine. 

“So this is your symbolism,” I say to her. “You dames and your hidden meanings.”

“That’s all life is,” says Sheila. “If you can’t read the writing on the wall, you might as well be blind.”

“So who paid me,”  I ask. 

“I did,” says Sheila.

“You can’t pay for that.” I say. One nod to her beamer shuts me right back up.

“So what is this, an intervention?”

“You bet your ass it is,” says Mick. 

“You’re done. You’re through,” says Sheila. “I’m pulling down more dollars in a month than you’ve made your whole career. You still living in that shack on Cumberland?”

I nod. What are you supposed to do when you’re whipped? You nod. You accept. At least that’s what they expect you to do.

“So you’re just giving me that money,” I say.

“Start a new life,” Sheila says. “Go and be a plumber or something. Something you can make some damn money at. Something where you can survive. Live.”

“Funny,” I say. 

“Funny is you thinking you got an eye for anything. Just give it up. How’d you enjoy your Louisiana Bayou Benedict?”

Boom goes the dynamite.

I look down at the greasy steering-wheel, at the dust-littered dash. Getting bamboozled by my ex. Driving this junker out to the desert.

 “OK Sheila,” I say. 

Sheila looks at me with a suspicious eye. Disbelieving. “You’re out?”

“Look, I know I’m a no-good P.I.” She nods. Mick does too. Mick’s nod hurts more. “And I get the point. I never will be good. Hell, I’ll never even be passable. But what you’re talking about is who I am. Here.” I poke myself in the chest like a jerk. But it’s the truth. All I’ve ever been is a P.I.. On the job is the only time I'm happy. Give up my work, and I’m nothing. Nothing at all. I look from Sheila to Mick and back again.

“So the only way I stop hitting the streets is when I get an idea in my head that’s small and fast and made of metal.”

And with that I pull out of the desert to go back to my stinkin’ apartment and my cheap furniture and my shit life. Sure, I’ll never be worth nothing. But when that’s the guy you were born to be, how can you say no?


4.3 Stars

Bintliff’s has been around for years and their menu shows it. Each dish contains no little amount of care and craft. And with a menu this big, it’s surprising the quality remains so consistently high.


(Not that many) Dolla dolla bills y’all

You can pay for a filling brunch (for one) with a twenty and still have more than enough for the tip. Start getting bloodies and mimosy-does though? That’ll cost ya, stranger.


Comfy Attic

Most likely you’ll be upstairs where the lighting is low and the booths are comfy. Old wood and plenty of nostalgic pictures all over the walls will put any workaday drudgeries from the mind.


More Coffee?

They keep your cup full. The hallmark of a fine brunch experience.



Wait your turn. Don’t leave. Just grab a coffee from the bar, put some cream or sugar in it if those are your things, and just have some patience. You will like it. Heck! You might even love it. Rest assured, Bintliff’s is a Portland gem. Give it a try or many. 

Caiola's (Brunch) - Portland, ME

The egg didn’t think highly of herself. Spending all her time with the cream had given her quite the complex. How could it not? The cream was so full of herself; knowing, and constantly expressing, that she was the top of her kind.

Nobody flirted with the egg; the cream got all the attention. The bread would flex its strong crust at her. Bacon would utter just lewd things, so bold. Luckily, the one breakfast meat the egg and cream mutually lusted after stayed silent: sausage.

Oh, how her yolk fluttered for sausage.

She never even dreamed of mixing with him. It was too daring, too audacious. As far as she knew, the people in white would not allow it.

From the scuttlebutt in the fridge, eggs like her had only rarely “mixed” with sausage. Normally, her spotted kind were stuck next to thin toast or put upon a bed of steadfast, earthy hash browns. Not that one could complain. Potatoes were alright. A bit of a bore.


You are looking at obscene deliciousness.

 Picture ℅ Map and Menu

“Dahling,” said the cream.

Not now, thought the egg.

“Oh dahling, you just can’t believe what a good feeling I have.”

“Is that right?”

“How can you be so very serious at a time like this?”

“A time like what?”

“Why girl don’t be so daft,” said the cream, looming imperiously over the egg’s carton. “It’s nearly our turn!”

Sure enough, the carton was nearly empty. The egg saw that there were only a couple of her kind left. She felt a thrill in her yolk.

Would she finally meet her lover on the hot, hot stove? Would she finally be allowed some sort of romance in what had been, to date, a very uninteresting and chilly life? Or would she most likely end up in a lonely lump, sectioned off on the plate to be eaten with overpowering ketchup, that uncouth fellow who seemed fine to mingle with almost anything?

“I’m just so very bothered,” said the cream. “I feel just as rich as the day I was skimmed. Don’t you?”

“Well,” said the egg, “I was laid…”

“Quite, quite,” said the cream, “I’m glad you agree.”

They both heard a sound that made them hold their respective non-breath: the squeak of crocs on restaurant-quality rubber. Soon came the suction sound. Then, a sliver of light opened up to the full, bustling panorama of the kitchen.


Is tat door a basktball Hoop b/c evry meal s a SLAM DuNK! Ohhhhh noooooNonoNonoNooooooOooOo.

Picture ℅ Maine Today


A white apron appeared, raising it’s hand. The hand found the cream, of course, who burbled with delight. But as soon as she was grabbed, her glossy form was quickly scooted aside. The white apron snatched the egg. 

The egg felt weightless, finally chosen. She could hear the cream’s indignation. But the feeling of euphoria didn’t last long; dread swept over her again. She’d be scrambled into a mushy mess. She’d never reach the grandeur of a benedicted egg; that round, gleaming whiteness, covered in a flowing cape of sauce, perched atop a hunk of glistening ham. No, it could never be that good. Always a bridesmaid, never a bride. Whatever that meant.

The egg was placed beside the griddle, staring out over a veritable orgy of carnal delight, the likes of which she had neither expected nor seen before. Bacon sizzled next to chorizo. Eggs and cheese melted into each other’s embrace. A tingling started inside her.

The egg knew she would be scrambled into mush. She just knew it. But the tingling remained. A glimmer of hope inside her dappled shell.

Oddly enough, the white apron picked up a thick slice of bread and cut out a section in the middle, placing the bread upon the slick, oiled cooking surface. And then with a swift motion, before the egg could even think to protest, the white apron cracked her eternal cover, and poured her, naked, into the rapidly hardening bread’s embrace.

The Bird's Nest: it tastes better than skinny feels.

Picture ℅ Cloak & Dagger 

The egg never thought bread could feel like this. Certainly, she’d gossiped about it with the cream and other eggs. But this bread was so tender, yet so strong. He became stiff as she heated up, her form becoming white and glossy, a color the cream could only ever dream of having. It was amazing. The egg moistened with heat and delight.

And then they were flipped, the bread more on top than around her, penetrating her from seemingly every angle. It was getting so hot. A dash of pepper and salt added some spice to their frantic mingling. The pleasure was so intense the egg could hardly stand it. This bread was amazing: so intuitive in how he enveloped her. Like he was reading her mind and reacting to every thought before she could utter it. She and the bread heaved there on the griddle, for all to see.

By the time the white apron laid the two of them onto a cool plate, the egg was shivering with pleasure. The two of them lay there, saying nothing to each other, simply basking in their mutual heat.


Hey. Hey, Cook. Good job.

Picture ℅ Caiola's 

But it seemed that the white apron was not quite done yet. As they lay in each other’s embrace, the white apron appeared with a pot, in which something thick was simmering. A ladle appeared, and the egg gasped.

But what was she smelling? It was something strong, powerful with a hint of spice. No, surely it couldn’t be sausage. This smelled so much fuller, more intensely masculine. It was as if sausage had been distilled somehow, intensifying his most basic, beautiful elements. It couldn’t be sausage. She couldn’t be this lucky.

But it turned out, she was.

With a flick of the wrist, the white apron covered the egg and toast in a powerful, thick layer of sausage gravy. Smooth yet full-bodied. Unbelievable in its potency.

She and the bread both moaned involuntarily. Stores of passion opened up beneath what they thought had been completely spent.

It was an orgy of flavor and texture. Passion rising with each heated moment as they mingled and came to know one another, fully and truly.

They whispered to each other, that trio of flavors. Buttery words of passion slipped between them as they rolled and caressed every inch of each other, the plate, once cold, now warm and steaming beneath them.

All this business, this, sexuality, should have made her feel dirty; a prim egg like herself, completely innocent and unaware of the carnal pleasures that this kitchen permitted. But it felt so right, completely natural. She couldn’t have resisted if she tried. She surrendered herself to the sensations that surrounded her.

The egg was so enraptured with the sausage gravy and toast, she hardly notice that a group of sweet potato fries – shoestring style – had been placed beside them. She didn’t mind their gawking. In fact, in spite of herself, she found that she enjoyed it. Simply, yolk and white-encompassing pleasure. The egg was in ecstasy.


"Why is he writing this?" you wonder. Because I can.

Picture ℅ Blueberry Files 

When they’d done everything imaginable to each other -- their romp complete -- they were placed under a hot light.

In that moment, the egg saw something: the cream. Their gazes connected. Even from a distance, the egg could see the envy on the cream’s quivering countenance.

But it didn’t end there. The cream was picked up and poured into a small burnished pitcher. The worst fate of all! She’d be forced to “know” a pot of chatty coffee or snobby tea. A more quotidian end for that hifalutin tea neither the egg nor the cream could imagine.

The things the egg had felt, the heights of passion and pleasure she had found made her almost sorry for the cream. But really, who could feel sorry for that supercilious dame.

The egg put her mind to the present. She knew that her, and her partners’ end was near. It was the natural way for all food to go; each plate eventually whisked off into the bustling commotion of the dining area, that place from which none came back. At least, not the way they left.

It was time to enjoy herself. The egg had been lucky, she knew, ending up in a Bird's Nest with these unsurpassed ingredients. Here in Caiola’s, she could never have guessed the delights that had awaited her. So, rather than think of any future she simply enjoyed the moment. For there is little worse than squandering pleasure with cold, rational thought.



5.0 Stars

Food porn. There is no other way to describe it. Best brunch in Portland.


Upper Middle Class

For two people, you’ll end up paying ~$40 all told. As opposed to the $35 you’d spend for any other legit brunch. Worth it for sure.


Rural Italy

Wooden tables. Cute pictures. Comfy (not cramped) seating. However that does mean there could be a wait, so go early.


AAA (not major league)

Great servers all around. Smiling. Keeping that coffee filled. Only once did it take a fair bit to get food. But a little more time with your morning coffee? C’mon.



If you are in Portland on a Sunday morning, there is no possible excuse you can make to not go to Caiola’s brunch. Plague? Tough it out. Plane crash? Go as a zombie. Grandma died? Grandmas die. Wait, that last one was mean. Sorry I love you G mama.



Marcy's Diner - Portland, ME

Man A: Are you ready to go?

Man B: If you’ll lend us an ear.

Man 2: As we review Marcy’s.

Man 3: …

Man 2: Um, Man 3 isn’t here. 

Man A: Hmm, the timing is right.

Man B: Wednesday morn on the dot.

Man 2: I’m really sorry guys, but here he is not.

Man 3: …

Man A: Man 2 that was your duty!

Man B: Your call and your charge!

Man 2: I really am sorry, I feel like an ass that’s quite large.

Man 3: …

Man A: Well this is a boot in the jeans.

Man B: A tap to the jewels.

Man 2: Where the hell could he be?

Man 3: Yo, what up fools!

Man A: Finally, good goodness.

Man B: You’ve decided to show.

Man 2: What took you so long?

Man 3: Um, some stuff... Look, let’s go.

They gawt a sense a hume-a!

Picture C/O Tripadvisor

A-5, 6, 7, 8!

Man A: Well haven’t you heard?

Man B: Rave reviews did you see?

Man 2: For a diner in Portland by the name of?

Man 3: Man 3?

Man A: Already, you cooked it.

Man B: Straight into the pot!

Man 2: Dude, we’re rhyming about Marcy’s.

Man 3: That’s not what I thought.

Man A: We absolutely are.

Man B: Marcy’s Diner you know?

Man 2: Open for breakfast + brunch,

Man 3: I don’t know that place, yo.

Man A: What the hell, man?

Man B: Seriously, what the hay?

Man 2: We’re only here to review it.

Man 3: Well why didn’t you say?

Man A: It was on the invite.

Man B: yeah seriously Man 3.

Man 2: Ohhhh, I forgot to give it to him.

Man 3: Haha! Boom!… See?!

Man A: Well we’re doing it now.

Man B: This is taking too long.

Man 2: Alright, we’re reviewing Marcy’s Diner.

Man 3: Yo check out this song.

Man A: Jesus in God’s heaven!

Man B: Poo out a brick!

Man 2: I vouched for you Man 3.

Man 3: What? Why are you being a dick?

Man A: Hey! No more profanity!

Man B: We’re here for Marcy’s, see?

Man 2: Didn’t you eat there yesterday?

Man 3: Is it right on Oak St. and Free?

Man A: That corner precisely.

Man B: Green front, hard to miss.

Man 2: It’s the one with the flag.

Man 3: Wait. Crap. Looks like this? 

Man A: So, have you been then?

Man B: Yeah, you really did go?

Man 2: He was most likely baked.

Man 3: hahahahahahahaha right? Y’know?

Man A: Cease this talk about drugs!

Man B: We’re child-friendly: PG.

Man 2: Oh right, Man 3, play along.

Man 3: That’s one lame-ass strategy.

Man A: Well, gentlefolks love it.

Man B: “peeps” all kinds, you know.

Man 2: We’re doing this mainstream.

Man 3: Shi... I mean, fu.. Whatever, let’s go.

Man A: …OK, so we’re ready?

Man B: Seriously, all set?

Man 2: I know that I am.

Man 3: Yeah, sure. You bet!

Man A: Alright, Marcy’s is fine.

Man B: For breakfast in a pinch.

Man 2: Hash browns that are solid.

Man 3: Though cash only’s a bitch.

Man A: Hey! Though that is quite true.

Man B: And no ATM nearby.

Man 2: Means it’s less than convenient.

Man 3: Like c’mon Marcy’s, try.

Man A: The Hobo Hash is indicative.

Man B: Of the whole place.

Man 2: Home fries, chili, cheese, eggs

Man 3: Straight to the face.

No, that’s not my finger in the side of the picture! IGNORE IT!

Man A: The proportion’s humongous.

Man B: Made with love not finesse.

Man 2: And the end result, while tasty.

Man 3: Is kind of a mess.

Man A: Flavors sink into flavors 

Man B: Meld to form a gut bomb

Man 2: Enough food for a family.

Man 3: Even ur mom.

Man A: ...The best part’s the muffins

Man B: Heated straight off the grill.

Man 2: Though the coffee is standard

Man 3: ...I shouldn’t have taken that pill.

Man A: Seriously? What did he say?

Man B: We were doing so well…

Man 2: Man 3 what’s the deal?

Man 3: What if our skin was a shell?

Man A: Please tell me this isn’t happening.

Man B: Seriously, what did he take?

Man 2: I dunno he’s f-ing out-there

Man 3: Hee! That’s no hat for a snake!

Man A: So he’s tripping now, right?

Man B: Look, he’s crawling around.

Man 2: He’ll be fine in a minute…

Man 3: Sergeant Hissy just frowned.

Man A: Can we do this without him?

Man B: Yeah it’s pretty simple to do.

Man 2: Ummm. *Looks over at Man 3*

Man 3: A plus B equals… moo!

Hello, old friend.

Picture C/O Jemura42

Man A: Forget it, let’s try.

Man B: Yeah we were talking about coffee.

Man 2: So should we move to the service?

Man 3: Yebdo qhi ni Pon Mofee.

Man A: Oh now he’s talking in tongues!

Man B: This is really distracting...

Man 2: I knew I shouldn’t have invited him! 

Man 3: Haha, boom bitches! Acting!

Man A: Wait, you were fine all along?

Man B: You son of a bitch!

Man 2: Jesus dude, I was worried.

Man 3: Chill out y’all, what’s the sitch?

Man A: The “sitch” is you’ve sunk us .

Man B: An abject disaster.

Man 2: Yeah man, I doubt anyone’s still reading.

Man 3: Whatever, you’re lame and I’m plastered.

Man A: Plastered or not... 

Man B: Let’s just finish this thing.

Man 2: *whispering* actually it was pretty funny.

Man 3: *whispering back* Man A’s eyes were all *p-ting!*

Man A: Alright, Marcy’s: their service.

Man B: Been fast and courteous to me.

Man 2: Though the owner has a slight ‘tude.

Man 3: Hey, courtesy ain’t free.

Man A: Her personality is strong, I’ll concede.

Man B: But the food is the point.

Man 2: It’s fine enough for a diner.

Man 3: After a big fatty j… appoint… ment.

Killer selection of SOUCE, though.

Man A: I’ve had the corned beef hash.

Man B: The litmus test of a diner.

Man 2: Yeah we both had that too.

Man 3: And I have had finer.

Man A: That’s precisely the key.

Man B: It seems no matter what you get.

Man 2: It’s stick to your ribs tasty.

Man 3: But it’s never the best bet.

Man A: Yes, indeed it is good.

Man B: But for the rave reviews we've heard.

Man 2: After Caiola’s and Hot Suppa,

Man 3: this ain’t even third.

Man A: Indeed an adequate summation.

Man B: It’s the truth there’s no doubt.

Man 2: The best brunch in Portland?

Man 3: This is not, yo. Peace OUT.


3.0 Stars

The type of meal where the first bite is great, and the last one is a labor.



Nothing to break the bank. You’ll get more than stuffed for $14. Or just take it easy and you can skate out for under $10.



Lots of kitsch and “Kiss the cook... OR ELSE” type fridge stickers. Def cozy tho.



Again, like at home, they’re warm and know your name, but they won’t hesitate to give you some good-natured guff.



Sure, there’s a lot that Marcy’s does really right. It’s just that in Portland, the brunch options abound. For minimally more, and in some cases less money, you can find a brunch that’s about 4x better.