A man sitting near us at one of Fuller’s two U-shaped Formica counters mopped the last of some yolk off his plate with a forkful of pancake and declared that he used to eat at Fuller’s nearly every day thirty-two years ago, and as far as he could see, nothing’s changed but the prices. Bread is still homemade: not artisan bread, but real, normal bread. Cinnamon rolls, made each morning, are soft and just-right sweet.
Lunch consists of such blue plate specials as hot beef and gravy with mashed potatoes and a corned beef sloppy Joe. There is always interesting seafood: salmon steaks in season, batter-dipped fish and chips, fresh-fried oysters, and big, slightly scary (but easy to eat) egg-battered, fried razor clams with French fries and cole slaw.
Off the tourist path but loved by locals, Fuller’s is not only prime Portland; it is a taste of the sort of high-quality urban hash house now nearly vanished from most American cities.