Maxwell and I went to lunch at the Horse Brass, one of those Portland institutions that I could never quite understand.
Maxwell likes pot pies, and Shepard's pie and fish and chips.
I blame his anglophile tastes on his father, but whatever the source he has them and if you slap a crust on gravy he is in.
I am not such a big fan of British food, and only went to humor him.
I ordered a salad, which in retrospect was probably a mistake. The lettuce was the dark green outer leaves that you generally throw away. They were limp and looked like something you would feed a pet turtle.
You could collect your salad trimmings all week for Timmy the Turtle and pile it on a plate, and it would look exactly like the salad I paid $9.00 for.