Sellwood Bar Saddles Up With Barbecue Tacos and Cowboy Boot Cocktails
'The theme we were joking around about is 'depressed Palm Springs cowboy,'' says Ezra Caraeff, one of the co-owners of the Last Rodeo, a new bar in Sellwood. 'We didn't want the macho kind, you know? F-250 cowboy. We wanted the cowboy contemplating the decisions he's made.' The Palm Springs comparison matches the airy, casually elegant space awash in teals and blonde wood. The 'depressed cowboy' part can be found in the impeccably curated playlist of mournful honky-tonk, while the paintings on the walls, most by Fort Worth artist Kevin Chupik, evoke the disappearing West from films like Lonely Are the Brave and No Country for Old Men.
Caraeff, along with Chip Addabbo and John Naekel, form the core of Three on a Match, a bar collective that includes Paydirt, the Old Gold, and Hi-Top Tavern. Each of those bars have different menus, aesthetics, and areas of focus, but they're unified in that they're all consummate neighborhood bars: classy enough for date night, casual enough for a $3.50 tallboy after work.
Their new Sellwood bar occupies the first level of the somewhat legendary (and some say cursed) 1920s Spanish revival building that was once the Woods music venue, a fixture of the shoegaze scene in the mid-aughts. Before that, it was a funeral home. 'I've been here late at night by myself, and it does not feel remotely haunted,' Caraeff assures, although he does note that the basement still has some remnants of its former trade: 'I was like, 'Why does this office have a floor drain?'' Thankfully, the rest of the building just feels like, well, a regular building. Neighboring tenants include an esthetician and a nail salon, so it can't be that haunted.
Molly J. Smith
Molly J. Smith
Bartender J-Bird prepares drinks at the soft opening of The Last Rodeo. Molly J. Smith
The newly remodeled interior feels deliberately light and open, filled with early evening sun and the happy clink of fast-draining pint glasses. There's now an expansive patio that wraps around two sides of the building, which already seems like the best place to see and be seen in the summer. It's slightly elevated, which prevents the bar crowd from spilling out onto the sidewalk, while also placing patrons at about eye level with passersby. And best of all it's almost completely in the shadow of the building itself, which means no need for precarious umbrellas or strategic shadow hopping.
While the vibes inside skew Southwestern, the food menu is all Central Texas courtesy of a collab with Matt's BBQ Tacos, the beloved truck offshoot of Matt's BBQ proper. Barbecue and breakfast tacos aren't exactly ubiquitous on the West Coast, but they're basically a dietary staple in Austin, and the examples on offer here can go boot to boot with any there. The concept of a $6 taco does sting a bit, but that's before a tray arrives piled high with silky guac and hefty strips of glistening sauce-glazed pork belly. The vegetarian offerings are just as substantial, with a smoky mushroom fajita taco that can also be made vegan. There's a good mix of sides and appetizers too, in particular the waffle fries, which can be ordered either fried in beef fat or vegetable oil.
And speaking of beef fat, there's the brisket-washed Maker's Mark Old Fashioned that feels destined to become a cocktail-hour conversation piece. Does brisket tallow pair well with Kentucky bourbon and maple syrup? That's perhaps best left to the individual palate, but it does lend a smoky campfire quality to a cocktail that already hearkens back to the flavor profiles of a 19th-century saloon.
The Tiki Luau Lounge cocktail, left, and the Cowboy Cooler cocktail at the Last Rodeo. Molly J. Smith
The rest of the cocktail menu features a good mix of classics and new creations, including a draft espresso martini and mezcal margarita, or the Cowboy Cooler which features Astral blanco tequila and ancho chile liqueur served up in a (glass) cowboy boot. For the perpetually indecisive, there's a fun section in the back featuring illustrated portraits of the bar staff and their signature shifty. Bartender J-Bird likes a High Life and navy-strength gin on the rocks, for example, or if you want to get fancy, barback Lee says they 'dream of a Corpse Reviver #2.'
Caraeff says they've been looking to work with Matt's for a while, but the last bar they opened didn't quite have the right floor plan for it. 'They use these giant 50-foot smokers,' he says, which can be hard to integrate into existing architecture. Caraeff says that Three on a Match has been trying to expand smart rather than fast: 'We've had a lot of false alarms over the years. We've looked at spaces in the suburbs, downtown, all over, nothing's really made sense.'
So how did they wind up in Sellwood? Facebook Marketplace, actually. 'We buy stuff for the bars there, on occasion, and I have this real sweet spot of an algorithm. Haunted puppets, marionettes with one leg, stuff like that.' He says his nightly ritual of cruising the virtual flea market produced an unexpected result: a listing for a section of the 5,500-square-foot property. For Caraeff, who was the music editor for the Portland Mercury when the Woods was in full swing, it was an easy sell. 'That was 119 days ago,' he recalls, 'so just as quick a turnaround as possible.' That is remarkably fast to put together a bar that feels as polished as this one, but as they say this isn't exactly their first rodeo: 'We're not totally ready,' Caraeff notes, 'but we're always like, 'Let's jump out of the plane, figure out the parachute on the way down.''
Plan or no plan, it seems to have worked out. Despite an attempt at a soft opening on Friday, July 11, there's been a line to the door ever since. The bar has enough seating and arrangements for the flow of traffic such that the line moves quickly, but a recent visit at 4 p.m. on Sunday, July 13, might as well have been a Saturday night rush. One of the harried bartenders, in between slinging glass boots full of tequila and taking orders for waffle fries, repeatedly cautions patrons that the slushie machine is operating at about 10 times the recommended capacity and isn't quite getting the boozy slush quite as set as they'd like. 'I literally don't care,' says a gleeful lady in a floral sun dress, and she orders a pair of mostly-there Panda Coladas with extra ice. 'I'm not gonna put 'em on Yelp,' she assures the bartender.
Currently the Last Rodeo is open 4 p.m. to 11 p.m., and Caraeff says the plan is to open earlier as they staff up. There's no plan to go later though, which probably makes sense with the giant patio and sleepy residential neighborhood nearby. 'We've got so many great bars on the street,' Caraeff says, 'we're very happy to send people to Kay's or Limelight or Cosmo,' and notes that the neighborhood as a whole has been 'super sweet.'
Sellwood has always had the makings of a great bar crawl street, but it's still very Old Portland and can be a bit insular as a result. A sad cowboy bar in an old funeral parlor might seem like a risky proposition, but in practice it fits the neighborhood like a well-worn Stetson. Like all neighborhood bars, the final call will come down to the neighbors themselves, but if this past weekend was any indication, Sellwood has decided to sidle up to the rail.
The Last Rodeo is located at 6637 SE Milwaukie Avenue, Portland; open from 4 p.m. to 11 p.m., Thursday to Monday. Minors allowed, if they're cool and like tacos,'til 9 p.m.
Molly J. Smith
Eater Portland
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Chicago Tribune
5 hours ago
- Chicago Tribune
Restaurant news: Cerdito Muerto, a cocktail bar and Mexican American kitchen, transforms an old family home in Pilsen
Cerdito Muerto, a speakeasy-style cocktail bar with a contemporary Mexican American kitchen that's transformed an old family home that survived the Great Chicago Fire, opened in Pilsen on June 26. The name translates in Spanish to 'the dead piglet,' but is meant in a playful way, said Emidio Oceguera, owner of the debut business. 'Being a first-generation Mexican American son of farmers and ranchers, pigs and piglets are pretty endearing in our culture,' said Oceguera. The space was his mother Consuelo Oceguera's restaurant, Tacos Palacio, and his late father Miguel Oceguera's neighborhood pool hall. 'Even to this day, my partner calls me Piggy, so Piggy and piglets have always been kind of part of my identity,' he said. His wife and business partner Sarah Dickerson is their head of marketing and brand development. Speakeasies were sometimes known as blind pigs or blind tigers or striped pigs during Prohibition, as a front for illegal bars that would charge admission to see fictional animal curiosities, then offer a free drink. Hence the curious dead piglet, or cerdito muerto. 'This has a very speakeasy feel to it,' said Oceguera, who was general manager at Chicago Cut Steakhouse for a decade. 'But I do not advertise myself as a speakeasy.' In fact, when asked about the best-selling items so far, he mentioned the food program that's constantly changing under chef Becky Carson, previously the opening executive chef at the reimagined Ramova Grill and Taproom. Carson has brought a branzino to the menu, with chimichurri, citrus and fresh oregano. 'But (the menu) does have a few of my mother's staples,' said Oceguera. That includes a goat birria taco from her rural hometown in Jalisco, Mexico. 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'It is so imperative that I do not cheat on any ingredient, because every seat counts for me, so every experience is crucial,' Oceguera said. His experience with the space runs deep. According to his research, the building was built in 1853, originally as a house, eventually with a barber shop. His father emigrated from Mexico in 1973, and he rented a cot in the basement from a family friend. 'After some time, he was able to get on his feet, moved out and met my mother here in Chicago,' he said. 'Ten years later, in 1983, they purchased this building from that family friend.' The elder Oceguera came from a small ranching town, where shooting pool was their pastime. 'My dad was really good at pool, but not a gambling man, so he made it a pool hall,' said the younger Oceguera. 'And my mom started selling menudo on Sundays to the young men.' The pop-up precursor turned into a pretty good business so they got rid of one of the pool tables. 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The bar is two inches lower than the standard height, and the booth allows diners to touch the floor. 'I'm not a tall man, so sometimes my feet go kicking as well.' First and foremost, he said, Cerdito Muerto is a safe space. 'I really built the space to be inclusive and inviting,' he added. He's also focused on working with minority-owned and women-led businesses. From designer Aida Napoles of AGN Design, to Cristina Gallo and her husband Marty Sandberg of Via Chicago Architects + Diseñadores, as well as producers of the primarily Mexican-made spirits at the bar. Has his mother experienced the transformed space yet? 'Oh yeah, if you're lucky enough, you might see her. She loves talking with people,' said Oceguera. 'It's just nice to see my mother, in her 70s, being able to see something of a retirement.' His father, who died in his mid-50s in 2013, never retired. His mother was looking at a completely full room at 11:30 on a recent Saturday night. 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Outies can order breakfast sandwiches from Honeybell Bakery, poke bowls from Jōzu, gyros, greens and grains from Broadfork, with more to Cafe From the minds behind Mirra, Lilac Tiger and Coach House, including 'Top Chef' contestant Zubair Mohajir, pastry chef Reema Patel and chef Jacob Dela Cruz, comes the newest bakery with hourslong lines, this one with Indian and Filipino influences. Sarima Cafe began baking in Wicker Park on July 25. They're already selling out fast of their ube cheesecake cookies, but look for a breakfast dosa and a latte with dates Cheval Logan Square The Freeze, the dearly departed seasonal soft serve ice cream and fast food stand, has become a fast food restaurant. Small Cheval began flipping in Logan Square on July 14. 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The Violet Hour, the pioneering cocktail bar that opened in 2007 behind an ever-changing unmarked muraled facade in Wicker Park, closed permanently June 27 due 'unexpected damage to the building' and 'despite extensive efforts and negotiations' with their landlord. But it's not the end of the brand, which may reappear elsewhere.
Eater
18 hours ago
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The Tire Shop Food Stand Serving Unique-to-Seattle Venezuelan Hot Dogs
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'I heard about it through TikTok,' said Jonathan, a customer making his first visit on a busy Saturday night. 'This guy I always see on my feed lives in Venezuela, but somehow was doing promotion for a place in Seattle! My friend went before me, and now here I am.' (Eater Seattle conducted the interviews for this story in Spanish.) For just over two months, Fido Hot Dogs has been bringing a street food vibe to North 45th Street, a slightly dingy strip of Fremont dotted with ice cream shops and Thai restaurants. Fido has no website, no Instagram — just a TikTok mixed with guest creators promoting Fido Hot Dog's locations in Seattle and Tacoma — and only accepts cash and Zelle. The owner Fido (pronounced fee-dough), declined to provide his last name, but says that he is friends with the Omar's Tires owner. A hot dog at Fido Hot Dog. Charlie Lahud-Zahner But what even is a Venezuelan hot dog? Basically, it's a regular steamed dog in a split-top brioche bun like those typically used for lobster rolls that is then heaped with toppings that might impress even the most ardent Seattle dog supporter. The menu options range from a regular hot dog to one with sliced hard-boiled egg to mechipan, a dog with egg and a rich shredded stewed beef (carne mechada), distinct to South America. A full toppings package includes egg, diced onion, shredded cabbage with carrots, crunchy small fried potato strands (papas al hilo), carne mechada, shredded cheese, mustard, ketchup, and mayo. It's humongous and even if you think you're an adult, use two hands and take small steps. Despite the presence of dairy, egg, and two different types of meat, the varying textures get along well and are relatively light on the stomach. The fried potato bits and onions add crunch, the egg yolk and the cheese blend well with the carne mechada, and the cabbage makes the whole thing a meal. The only downside is the slightly undercooked dog — the meat is often barely larger than how it came out of the package and would definitely benefit from grilling. However, without a doubt it's the carne mechada that sets Fido Hot Dog apart. The beef is super savory, juicy, and easily worth the extra two dollars. For drinks there's Frescolito, a Venezuelan soft drink with an almost bubble gum-esque flavor, Coke, or Maltín, a soda best described as a malted cola. A scene one recent night at Fido Hot Dog. Charlie Lahud-Zahner 'This is the food I ate growing up in Venezuela, the same way you'd have tacos in Mexico or McDonalds here,' says one patron named Uriel. 'The food is different, but the feeling is similar.' With that being said, most customers are of Venezuelan descent and/or Spanish-speaking. Non-Spanish-speaking Wallingfordians seem simultaneously intrigued and intimidated by the bilingual scene. Jokes, jeers, and jibes in a distinctive fast-paced Venezuelan Spanish fill the air and the cling cling of Doordash notifications is a constant background refrain. According to Michel, the second half of the two-man stand, the majority of the patrons are delivery drivers, and it's not uncommon to see hot dogs eaten at Joey Chestnut speeds as they maintain quick turnaround times. English speakers do their best to ask clarifying questions while Fido and Michel do their best to give clarifying answers, but small miscommunications regularly occur. Fido and Michel hope that the new printed English menu will help attract even more locals. With this in mind, any curious diners should make their best Spanish effort if they have the ability to do so. If not, an order of uno con todo will give you the most bang for your buck. Fido Hot Dog's is located at 2221 N 45th Street in the parking lot of Omar's Tires in Wallingford; open from 7:30 p.m. to midnight Tuesday through Sunday; the Tacoma stand is located at 11111 Pacific Avenue South, in the parking lot of another Omar's Tires. Eater Seattle All your essential food and restaurant intel delivered to you Email (required) Sign Up By submitting your email, you agree to our Terms and Privacy Notice . This site is protected by reCAPTCHA and the Google Privacy Policy and Terms of Service apply.
Los Angeles Times
18 hours ago
- Los Angeles Times
Appreciation: Tex-Mex titan Flaco Jiménez knew how to best beat la migra: humor
The accordionist commands the stage, his eyes staring off as if in a trance, his fingers trilling out the opening notes of a tune. It's a long, sinuous riff, one so intoxicating that the audience in front of him can't help but to two-step across the crowded dance floor. He and his singing partner unfurl a sad story that seemingly clashes with the rhythms that back it. An undocumented immigrant has arrived in San Antonio from Laredo to marry his girlfriend, Chencha. But the lights on his car aren't working and he has no driver's license, so the cops throw him in jail. Upon being released, the song's protagonist finds a fate worse than deportation: His beloved is now dating the white guy who issues driver's licenses. 'Those gabachos are abusive,' the singer-accordionist sighs in Spanish in his closing line. 'I lost my car, and they took away my Chencha.' The above scene is from 'Chulas Fronteras,' a 1976 documentary about life on the United States-Mexico border and the accordion-driven conjuntos that served as the soundtrack to the region. The song is 'Un Mojado Sin Licencia' — 'A Wetback Without a License.' The musician is Tex-Mex legend Flaco Jiménez, who died last week at 86. Born in San Antonio, the son and grandson of accordionists became famous as the face of Tex-Mex music and as a favorite session player whenever rock and country gods needed some borderlands flair. He appeared alongside everyone from the Rolling Stones to Bob Dylan, Buck Owens and Dwight Yoakam on 'The Streets of Bakersfield' to Willie Nelson for a rousing version of 'Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain.' With Doug Sahm, Augie Meyers and fellow Tejano chingón Freddy Fender, Jiménez formed the Texas Tornadoes, whose oeuvre blasts at every third-rate barbecue joint from the Texas Hill Country to Southern California. Jiménez was a titan of American music, something his obits understood. One important thing they missed, however, was his politics. He unleashed his Hohner accordion not just at concerts but for benefits ranging from student scholarships to the successful campaign of L.A. County Superior Court Judge David B. Finkel to Lawyers' Committee, a nonprofit formed during the civil rights era to combat structural racism in the American legal system. Jiménez and the Texas Tornadoes performed at Bill Clinton's 1992 inauguration ball; 'Chulas Fronteras,' captured Jiménez as the headliner at a fundraiser for John Treviño Jr., who would go on to become Austin's first Mexican American council member. It's a testament to Jiménez's heart and humor that the song he performed for it was 'Un Mojado Sin Licencia,' which remains one of my favorite film concert appearances, an ideal all Latino musicians should aspire to during this long deportation summer. The title is impolite but reflected the times: Some undocumented immigrants in the 1970s wore mojado not as a slur but a badge of honor (to this day, that's what my dad proudly calls himself even though he became a U.S. citizen decades ago). Jiménez's mastery of the squeezebox, his fingers speeding up and down the rows of button notes for each solo like a reporter on deadline, is as complex and gripping as any Clapton or Prince guitar showcase. What was most thrilling about Jiménez's performance, however, was how he refused to lose himself to the pathos of illegal immigration, something too many people understandably do. 'Un Mojado Sin Licencia,' which Jiménez originally recorded in 1964, is no dirge but rather a rollicking revolt against American xenophobia. The cameraman captures his gold teeth gleaming as Jiménez grins throughout his thrilling three minutes. He's happy because he has to be: the American government can rob Mexicans of a better life, 'Un Mojado Sin Licencia' implicitly argues, but it's truly over when they take away our joy. 'Un Mojado Sin Licencia' is in the same jaunty vein as other Mexican classics about illegal immigration such as Vicente Fernández's 'Los Mandados,' 'El Corrido de Los Mojados' by Los Alegres de Terán and 'El Muro' by rock en español dinosaurs El Tri. There is no pity for undocumented immigrants in any of those tracks, only pride at their resilience and glee in how la migra can never truly defeat them. In 'Los Mandados,' Fernández sings of how la migra beats up an immigrant who summarily sues them; 'El Corrido de Los Mojados' plainly asks Americans, 'If the mojados were to disappear/Who would you depend on?' Even more defiant is 'El Muro,' which starts as an overwrought metal anthem but reveals that its hero not only came into the United States, he used the titular border wall as a toilet (trust me, it sounds far funnier in the Mexico City lingo of gravelly lead singer Alex Lora). These songs tap into the bottomless well that Mexicans have for gallows humor. And their authors knew what satirists from Charlie Chaplin to Stephen Colbert knew: When life throws tyranny at you, you have to scoff and push back. There are great somber songs about illegal immigration, from La Santa Cecilia's haunting bossa nova 'El Hielo (ICE)' to Woody Guthrie's 'Deportee (Plane Wreck at Los Gatos),' which has been recorded by everyone from the Byrds to Dolly Parton to Jiménez when he was a member of Los Super Seven. But the ones people hum are the funny ones, the ones you can polka or waltz or mosh to, the ones that pep you up. In the face of terror, you need to sway and smile to take a break from the weeping and the gnashing of teeth that's the rest of the day. I saw 'Chulas Fronteras' as a college student fighting anti-immigrant goons in Orange County and immediately loved the film but especially 'Un Mojado Sin Licencia.' Too many of my fellow travelers back then felt that to party even for a song was to betray the revolution. Thankfully, that's not the thinking among pro-immigrant activists these days, who have incorporated music and dancing into their strategy as much as lawsuits and neighborhood patrols. The sidewalks outside the Metropolitan Detention Center in downtown L.A., where hundreds of immigrants are detained in conditions better suited for a decrepit dog pound, have transformed into a makeshift concert hall that has hosted classical Arabic musicians and Los Jornaleros del Norte, the house band of the National Day Laborer Organizing Network. Down the 5 Freeway, the OC Rapid Response Network holds regular fundraisers in bars around downtown Santa Ana featuring everything from rockabilly quartets to female DJs spinning cumbias. While some music festivals have been canceled or postponed for fear of migra raids, others have gone on as planned lest ICE win. Musicians like Pepe Aguilar, who dropped a treacly cover of Calibre 50's 'Corrido de Juanito' a few weeks ago, are rushing to meet the moment with benefit concerts and pledges to support nonprofits. That's great, but I urge them to keep 'Un Mojado Sin Licencia' on a loop as they're jotting down lyrics or laying down beats. There's enough sadness in the fight against la migra. Be like Flaco: Make us laugh. Make us dance. Keep us from slipping into the abyss. Give us hope.
